Spring and Fall
by LadyLazarus9
Summary: Finally free from Milady's hold on his heart, Athos and the Musketeers begin investigating the death of an unlikely hero and the woman he mentions with his dying breath. A tavern owner and recluse, Marguerite tries to draw as little attention as possible, but the frequent attention from Musketeers makes it difficult. Mystery, romance, Athos/OC. Previously "La Belle et la Bete"
1. Part 1: Chapter 1

**Hello, readers.**

**I'm trying to bring myself to feel sorry about this. Really, I am. But honestly, I feel like I have the right to do this. But before you get worked up, I'm not ending the fanfic. I am, in fact, trying very hard to continue it now that the series is over (I haven't seen it yet, btw). In order to achieve that goal, I am making some changes to the story. Not huge changes, mind you, but the title, obviously. La Belle et la Bete was just a filler title I put in there, but now that I know what story better, I found something better that will be rather profound by the end. Also I'm making some plot changes that will ease the flow of the story. I suppose that's what I get for posting an unfinished work-in-progress, but I'm largely casual about fanfiction, and I hope you guys are too. Hopefully, this story bears re-reading so you can find the changes and enjoy the story. **

**-Laz, who appreciates the patience you have. Read on, lovelies!**

* * *

Fall

Part One: The Maiden's Heart

Chapter One

"The last time this happened," drawled Aramis, balancing the end of his pistol on his finger, "it went on for _days_."

D'Artagnan snorted, licked his thumb, and turned the page of his book. Porthos, reclined against the wall with his hat over his eyes, grumbled, "You go on for days."

Aramis wasn't about to finish there. "I mean, we're Musketeers. That means we should be out there somewhere, running head-long into danger, saving lives, winning favor—"

"Everything except peace and quiet," D'Artagnan added lightly.

The pistol tipped suddenly and fell, hitting Aramis' face as it went. "Ow. Come, D'Artagnan, it's been merely three months since you've become a Musketeer—getting tired already?"

Porthos grunted, "Of you?"

Aramis was the most easily effected by leisure—and poorly effected at that. If he had his way, they would all be working, traveling, fighting constantly; as it was, the occasional lull in action permeated their line of work, especially during times of peace. It was one of those times, though less than three days ago they had returned from a long and difficult journey from Calais after a meeting with the Duke of Buckingham. The King's life had not been at risk, but a royal person is a difficult traveling companion; the pace had been agonizingly slow.

Aramis brought his fists down on the table, their usual spot in the garrison yard, his eyes bright with irritation. "What's the matter with you two? I'm going to die of boredom, and here you are, sleeping and—what are you _doing_?"

D'Artagnan rolled his eyes. "I'm reading, Aramis. Have you ever tried to?"

Aramis looked affronted. "Of course. Naturally. I just haven't got the time."

"No time, eh? Plenty of time wastin' away now, isn't there?" This came from under Porthos' hat.

"Aren't you supposed to be sleeping?" Aramis snapped. "Anyway, D'Artagnan, I didn't think it was a common accomplishment of men in Gascony to read. Learned farmer, were you?"

D'Artagnan didn't take the bait. "My father was. He taught me everything he could; we couldn't afford school."

"Fair enough, just didn't place you as the reading type."

D'Artagnan looked up. "Exactly what 'type' am I?" he said petulantly.

Aramis was saved from answering this question as Athos strode into the yard. "Athos! Please, save me from this boredom; I swear, I shall go mad from it."

Athos' face was customarily stoic. "You mean the boredom you were praying for a week ago? I don't when your moaning is worse, when we're in the thick of battle or during our time off." Athos bore slow days as he bore any difficult day—with few words and at least one glass of wine.

Aramis threw his hands up. "You're all of you useless. I'm going to go amuse myself, and no, you're not invited." He stood, collecting his hat and gloves and stomping in a surprisingly childlike manner.

"If you get drunk and try to swim to the bottom of the Seine again, I'm not pulling you out!" D'Artagnan called after him, turning another page.

"Have you seen the cat?" Athos said in his quiet voice.

D'Artagnan scoffed. "That bloody _cat_."

The cat was an interesting story. There was no shortage of homeless animals roaming the streets of Paris—and no shortage of carcasses, either—but a particularly persistent cat had begun to wait in the yard for scraps about a month ago, a scruffy bedraggled thing that look as if it had been drowned and resurrected. They fed the cat out of amusement mostly, though D'Artagnan had not been amused—he was not predisposed to cats, and found himself coming down with a cold whenever it was around for long. Most surprising was Athos' reaction to the creature; they had expected him to merely tolerate its presence, but instead they found the cat was drawn to him, and he to it. They seemed a good pair, both entirely independent and somehow lonely. It was customary for the cat to sleep curled up in Athos' quarters and frequently in his lap, though he'd not bothered to name it. It was an addition to their unlikely group none of them had anticipated.

"He's been gone all day," Athos said now.

"Maybe a dog chased him off," said Aramis. "He'll be back."

"Perhaps he is furnishing someone's dinner," muttered D'Artagnan darkly.

Athos paused, looking down at D'Artagnan. "Are you reading?" He sounded intrigued.

"Why do people keep asking that? Yes, I read. Is that such a surprise?" D'Artagnan snapped, shutting his ragged copy of Homer's tales. It was an heirloom of sorts; his father used to read it to him.

"Somewhat surprising, yes," Athos drawled, shrugging on his leather jerkin and fixing his Musketeer's shoulder guard in place. "Only because I would have thought you more likely to be swimming to the bottom of the Seine on a day off."

D'Artagnan rolled his eyes. "I'm glad you have such a high opinion of me. You're not going to look for that cat, are you? Good riddance, if you ask me."

"I didn't," said Athos, pulling his hat down on his brow. "Make sure Porthos doesn't get into trouble."

As if on cue, Porthos began to snore.

* * *

Looking for a cat in a city as large as Paris was no easy task; the streets were crowded and the city enormous. Athos wandered, unsure of where exactly to begin such a search. He passed under the bridge where two months ago he had said a final goodbye to the woman he had once loved. He wondered vaguely if her locket was still there, in the dirt. No doubt someone had found it and sold it. It was here, under the bridge, that he felt a familiar brush of tail against his leg. He looked down to see the cat, its dirty gray fur and quiet meow. He crouched down to pet its head, but with a purr it slipped away from him and trotted down the street. Athos had no choice but to follow.

It was an area of Paris he was somewhat familiar with; they were not yet far from the Musketeers' garrison, but Athos did not recognize any faces or names. The cat wove through feet and padded soundlessly into a tavern; the sign hanging outside read, "The Maiden's Heart." Inside, the tavern was occupied but not bustling. Dimly lit but fairly clean, the pub had a surprising lack of suspicious characters lurking in corners, merely men sitting for a drink, women gossiping, travelers eating dinner.

Having lost the cat in his new surroundings, Athos went to the bar. A young girl was there, cleaning glasses—she couldn't have been older than sixteen, possibly fifteen. Athos thought it unwise for a young girl to be alone in a place like this, as pleasant as it was. He knew better than most what drink could do to a person, especially a man.

He asked for wine and paid his coin, his eyes skimming under tables and in corners for the cat.

A woman entered from the kitchen door with a pan of milk. "Could you check on the meat pies, Elaine?" she said to the girl cleaning glasses, who disappeared into the kitchen. The woman set the pan on the edge of the bar, and behind her the cat leapt to it, its pink tongue lapping up the liquid. "There you are, my friend."

The woman set to finishing cleaning the glasses as the cat drank its milk. Athos downed the last of his wine and went to the cat, who looked up from its milk and padded over to him, leaning into his hand purring.

"Is he yours, Monsieur?" This came from the woman behind the bar.

"Yes," he said, "in a manner of speaking."

"He's been coming here the last few days," said the woman. "I wasn't sure if he was being fed, so I started giving him milk. I think I've prompted a habit."

Athos looked at her. Her words were friendly, but she did not smile—she didn't need to. Her eyes were pleasant enough, hooded and ponderous and hazel in her thin face. She was thin, as thin as many of the poor in Paris. Her clothing was plain and utilitarian. Her hair was the brown of autumn leaves and straight; she had it pulled back into a loose knot but a few strands fell into her eyes. She brushed them away.

"You have my thanks, Mademoiselle," said Athos. "His absence has caused some concern."

"I didn't know they kept cats at the Musketeers' garrison," said the woman. Her voice was soft and quiet and somber, the kind that could easily disguise threats as well as furnish sincere compliments. He didn't answer, and she looked up. "I don't get many Musketeers in here, but I recognize them when I do."

"It's a fine establishment," he said, trying to shake off the odd feeling her hazel eyes gave him.

"I keep it as clean as I can," she replied. She swatted gently at the cat with her towel. "Finish your milk, _mon petit_. I'm loath to waste it." To Athos' surprise, the cat complied, lapping again at the milk until it was gone. "Now go with your Musketeer," she said to it, and it returned to nudge Athos' arm. "Pleasure to have met you, Monsieur."

Athos seldom offered his name unless it was required, but he felt oddly compelled to now. "Athos of the King's Musketeers."

She nodded, her strangely indifferent face contradicting her expressive eyes. "Margot! The pies are burning!" came a distressed cry from the kitchen. The woman spared him one look before calling, "Coming!" and leaving him alone.

The cat meowed as his elbow. Athos stood. "No more milk for you," he told it, and left the tavern.


	2. Part 1: Chapter 2

**Okay, so I know nothing about what the barely-proletariat of the 17th century knew about Homer, so I apologize for that particular historical inaccuracy-but bear with me. I mean, this is the BBC, not the History Channel.**

**Still combing through the story. Please be patient with any ensuing changes.**

**-Laz**

* * *

Chapter Two

The King of France and a penchant for drama. Not a week went by at the Louvre Palace without one of his sensational tantrums—though they were more dignified than that; his loud, somewhat high voice could be heard at nearly any point of the palace or the grounds, arguing with the Cardinal, making jest with his courtiers, or ranting about some current issue.

Following these escapades, the King often went hunting, a favorite pastime. He made it well known that he would rather stalk stag or set the hounds after a deer in Versailles, but most often he would content himself with shooting pheasant in the palace grounds.

It was one of those days, except instead of anger or frustration, the King seemed to be possessed by _happiness_. Porthos and Athos were on duty guarding the King, and when the King burst from his privy chamber bellowing for his rifle, Treville sent for Aramis and D'Artagnan and three other Musketeers, knowing the King would want his favorites guarding him.

"You'd think they would run out of pheasant," muttered D'Artagnan as they crossed the grounds, the blue of their cloaks stirring in the wind.

"Or at least tire of eating it," Aramis replied, straightening his hat.

Under a scarlet and crimson canopy, the King waited, surrounded by milling nobles, talking animatedly to the Cardinal, whose expression was as difficult to read as always. Porthos and Athos stood to the side, surveying their surroundings stalwartly, though Porthos looked as though he was holding in a laugh.

"Gentlemen," Aramis greeted airily. "How fares our Majesty?"

"He shot two pigeons on the lawn already," Athos drawled, an unamused twist to his mouth.

"Couldn't wait for them to bring out pheasants for him," Porthos chuckled. "And those birds are trained to hold still 'til the end."

"Now, now," said D'Artagnan fairly. "He's the King. Your insults could be considered traitorous."

"Sometimes I feel this job is traitorous," Aramis muttered. "What did we do to become his favorites, anyway? Just our duty; he doesn't realize we'd be of more use out doing what we do best, not babysitting him."

"It doesn't matter where we are," said Athos solidly. "We protect the King."

"If only we could all be as perfect as you, Athos," Aramis sighed with mock regret.

Before Athos could reply with a jab—verbal or physical—the King yelled, "Come, the birds! Honestly, Cardinal, do you mean to keep me waiting? I have it in my head to break my record."

"Forgive me, Your Majesty," Richelieu replied, "I do not mean to trouble you with matters now. You deserve your leisure in such stressful times. After the Queen's abduction…"

Aramis stifled a scoff, but only just. "The man is a snake," he growled, and received several elbows to his ribs.

But the King seemed unaffected by the Cardinal's words. In fact, he seemed buoyed up by them, a small smile breaking onto his face.

"You are in a surprisingly good mood, Your Majesty," the Cardinal observed with only slight trepidation.

"Yes," said the King lightly. "Yes, I suppose I am. Don't bother asking why, you can't know just yet. The Queen's orders. Ah!"

A pheasant burst from the underbrush, no doubt spurred by a groom hiding behind a tree with a long stick. The bird fell to the ground and the King seemed very pleased with himself.

"A fine shot, Your Majesty," said an impeccably dressed Minister obsequiously. "You have a soldier's eye for firearms, if I may say. No doubt you could best even your formidable Musketeers!"

"And who is he to say?" D'Artagnan muttered to Athos.

"Barthelemy. Minister of Finance," Athos replied as the King downed another pheasant. "No doubt the man never held a pistol in his life."

"The king's not a bad shot," Porthos observed.

"True," D'Artagnan said. "But I'd be more impressed if the birds were more than forty yards away."

"Forty yards," Aramis scoffed. "I could shoot a man through the eye at that distance."

"Hurrah for you," said Athos unenthusiastically.

"The fact of the matter is," the King said to the Cardinal and Treville, looking breathless and happy, "I've come to realize that everything turns out right in the end. No matter what happens, it works out."

The Cardinal nodded reverentially. "Your Majesty grows more wise every day."

The King turned and shot another pheasant out of the sky to applause. A groom moved to gather it, but the King was already striding toward it. "No, no, I've got it," he said, as Athos moved to follow the King and stopped.

The King was crouching to pick up the bird when the bracken beside him rustled. Athos saw it and shot out toward it, bellowing, with the others moving at his side, but they were nearly fifty yards from the King. The movement betrayed a man, masked with a dagger, lunging toward the exposed silk of the King's back.

"No! The King!"

The King looked up, startled by the caterwaul, to see the legs of a man leaping over him; he heard a cry of pain, heard the blast of a shot fired from one of his Musketeers, and felt thunderous thuds on the earth next to him. He struggled to his feet and was surrounded by the Musketeers and Treville.

"What on earth is going on?"

"Get the King inside!" Treville ordered. "You three, with me, now! Athos, the rest of you—make sure there are no others."

The King and the rest of the entourage scurried back to the palace, and the four remaining Musketeers spread out to secure the area.

He felt foolish and angry—he had not been quick enough; none of them had been. If Aramis had not killed the man, the King would be dead by now. Instead, a groom had taken the blow for the King.

Athos looked down at the body below him, one of two. The groom who had saved the King's life was only a boy, but the knife in his chest showed that he had as much blood in him as any grown man. Athos saw the faint rise and fall of his chest and fell to his knees.

"He's breathing! Aramis!"

The others came to his side; D'Artagnan pulled out his flask and they raised the boy's head to pour some water into his bloody mouth. The boy gasped weakly.

"You've done well, boy," said Aramis softly, his hand cupping the boy's head. Athos met his friend's eye; with a fractional shake of Aramis' head, Athos knew the groom did not have long to live.

The boy jerked his head fractionally, his eyes wide. His hands were white and clenched fiercely; he held one shaking out to them. The edges of paper could be seen. He made as if to speak, and they moved closer to hear.

"It hurts—oh, God! My mother—sisters—the-they'll starve," he breathed with effort fear widening his eyes. "…You m-must tell—Mar-Marguerite—th-the maid..en's heart…"

"Don't try to talk," said Athos in his low, gentle voice. "You've saved the King. You will be remembered for this service."

A moment later, the boy's rattling breath rushed out of him in a long gust and his eyes emptied. Athos had seen death countless times, but the hollowness of dead eyes always unnerved him. What gave eyes life? What left when someone died to make eyes so…lifeless?

"Brave boy," said Porthos. "Did more than we could."

"He had the heart of a Musketeer," Aramis said, letting the boy's head rest against the earth gently.

Athos stood and moved to the body of the assassin. Aramis had managed to shoot him just in time, though not before the assassin had embedded his knife in the chest of the groom; Aramis had not intended to be so lethal, but the man died almost instantly, before any explanation could be offered. Athos bent to inspect the body; the man wore papal robes, black like the Cardinal's, but plain and roughly woven. Athos tugged at a chain around the man's neck, exposing a stark, severe cross with spiked ends.

"Jesuits," he said.

"At least we have something to tell the King," said Porthos. "We know why the Jesuits want to kill him."

"The Jesuits are after every monarch in Europe," Athos replied. "It's not good enough."

D'Artagnan moved to his side. "Porthos is right. The Jesuits have been trying to oust the King for years. This is enough evidence to explain the attack."

"And how do we explain it to the boy's family?" Athos said bitterly.

Aramis nodded. "We should contact his family. The King will want to give them some recompense."

"What about what he said before he died?" D'Artagnan said. "It seemed important to him."

"He said the name Marguerite," Aramis mused. "And something about a heart…"

"He said 'Maiden's Heart,'" said Athos as though he had always known, but it had just connected in his head. The tavern woman who fed the cat, the one with the large sad eyes and the quiet voice.

D'Artagnan frowned. "What does that mean?"

"It's a tavern in the city." Athos moved back to the boy's body. "Porthos, what did he have in his hand?"

Porthos held the scrap of parchment in his hands. "It's just scribbles." He held it up to Athos.

The parchment was crumpled from the boy's death grip and the words smudged. The hand that had written them was careful and curled, the ink thin and red. And indeed, the characters themselves were not comprehensible, at least to Porthos' eyes.

"It's in Greek," said Athos. Though the writing was precise, the words were difficult to translate; it had been years since his lessons sitting beside his brother in the library at his estate. "It says…'Sing, muse, of—about Achilles, son of—Peleus—'"

"What does it mean?" said Porthos.

"I recognize it. It's from _The Iliad_ by Homer, the Greek poet," D'Artagnan said.

"Don't tell me you can read Latin, too," said Aramis, looking both annoyed and impressed.

"No, I can't," D'Artagnan replied icily. "Is that all there is, Athos?"

Athos nodded, his brow furrowed.

Porthos said, "Seems like a dead end."

"No," said Athos, folding the parchment. "It's a beginning."

"What do we do now?" D'Artagnan said.

Athos retrieved his hat, his frown cutting into his face. "We go to the Maiden's Heart," he said. He looked to the sky; it would rain before nightfall. "We find this Marguerite."


	3. Part 1: Chapter 3

Chapter Three

It was late in the evening when the four Musketeers entered the Maiden's Heart. The sky was bruised purple and gray, the air chill from rainclouds sweeping over the city. The cold seeped into Athos' bones, settling into his joints and sharpening his mind.

After calming a King distraught at an attempt on his life, Treville had sanctioned an inquiry into the mysterious note in the hands of the King's savior. Even Cardinal Richelieu seemed eager for the Musketeers to find answers, though none of them trusted his appearance since they discovered he was behind Queen Anne's assassination attempt.

"Maybe he's sick of playing the fool for the King," Porthos muttered at one point. "Now he'd rather rule on his own. Without the King or an heir, the ruling of France would fall to the First Minister."

"Without the King, Richelieu's life is forfeit," Athos had replied. "It is his bond with Louis that ensures his power. If Louis died, the Cardinal would be ousted immediately."

"And I can't see the Cardinal plotting with Jesuits, either," Aramis had said.

D'Artagnan had frowned. "Do we know who the boy was?"

Porthos shook his head. "The master of servants said the boy used to be in the kitchens and worked his way up to groom. They never called him anything but 'boy' and he never made any friends."

"Perhaps this mysterious woman can identify him," Aramis said.

Now they entered the Maiden's Heart. Considerably more crowded than it had been when Athos had visited some weeks ago, the air inside was warm and smelled of ale. Looks were thrown at the four men as they entered, and small whispers made about the fleur-de-lis embossed on their shoulder guards. Musketeers never came to this tavern.

A serving girl brought them cups of wine. She was not the same girl Athos had seen cleaning glasses at the bar, but another around the same age.

"Pardon, Mademoiselle," said Aramis in his charming, kind way; they had discovered that he was the best when it came to questioning women—if they weren't impressed by his looks or his charm, they at least found him the least threatening. "Can you tell us who owns this establishment?"

"Monsieur Albert Rosier owns the premises, Monsieur," the girl answered.

"Ah, yes, Rosier," Aramis said, as if he knew the man. "Is he here?"

The girl looked quizzical. "No, Monsieur. He seldom visits, only to collect the rent and forty percent of the profits from Mademoiselle Defoe."

Aramis mimicked the girl's expression. "I am unacquainted with Mademoiselle—Defoe, was it?"

The girl nodded. "Marguerite Defoe. She runs the Maiden's Heart."

D'Artagnan said, "An unmarried woman running a business by herself? Not many owners would allow that."

The girl had fixed her face into an unreadable expression; she knew she was being questioned. "We are a _very _profitable establishment, Monsieur. Excuse me."

She left the bottle of wine at their table, and Porthos, who had already downed his cup, poured another.

"Anyone else get the feeling that something's off?" he said. "A pub run by a woman whose name is spoken by an unnamed groom before he dies of an assassination attempt on the king? Where exactly did this go wrong?"

A man entered the tavern, a black cape on his back and his hat still on his head. He walked directly to the bar and placed a sack of coins on the surface. The serving girl opened the purse and counted silently, then motioned the man to the stairs. He disappeared up them.

D'Artagnan turned to Athos. "You didn't tell us this place was a brothel, too."

That was because Athos had not known. It made more sense now, how an unmarried woman could run a tavern without interference. No doubt Monsieur Rosier got his money's worth from this place.

"Profitable establishment, indeed," muttered Porthos.

"Athos," said Aramis, looking pointedly over his friend's shoulder.

They turned. A woman stood in the doorway of the kitchen, the serving girl behind her. She was looking directly at the table occupied by the Musketeers; her eyes were startlingly sharp and hooded. She was smallish and plainish, with hair an unremarkable brown color and gathered into a loose knot.

Aramis, a lover of beauty, thought she looked thin, too thin to be beautiful but not thin enough to be undesirable; he thought she was striking enough to make up for what she lacked in beauty.

Porthos thought that she was keen—the hooded glare of her eyes and the small twist of her mouth spoke of an intelligence not often thought of in women, and Porthos couldn't help but have a slight admiration.

D'Artagnan looked at her hands, which were long and slender and calloused; she was a hard worker, and she brushed her hands off on her skirt with little regard to fashion.

Athos saw what they could not; only someone like him, someone who knew a singularly destructive kind of betrayal, could recognize such a thing just by looking at a person. It was like identifying a planet rotating amongst the brightest of stars, pinpointing the horizon where the ocean and the sky meet in a fog, or distinguishing shadows in the dark of a new moon—it was there, glittering faintly around the deceptively common shape of her face, a tantalizing danger, one he had never been able to resist: this woman had secrets.

She was standing at their table, a pleasant arch to her lips. "Gentlemen," she said, her voice low and placid. "Harriette tells me you were asking about me. What an honor, to be graced by the presence of four Musketeers."

It as at this point during most interrogations that Athos took charge, explaining their purpose and outlining their expectations without leaving room for variation, but this time he did not speak. The woman's eyes did not linger on him, but he knew—she recognized him.

Aramis took initiative, standing. "Mademoiselle," he said respectfully. "We are the King's Musketeers and we come on his business. I am Aramis; these are my comrades: Porthos, Athos, and D'Artagnan."

She nodded to them, so far displaying more decorum than most tavern owners. "The King's business? How did the King's business lead you to my establishment?"

"Are you familiar with anyone who serves the King?" Aramis asked.

The woman's eyebrows rose. "Anyone who serves the King? You mean at the Louvre Palace? I can't say that I do, no."

"That's strange," said Porthos. "Because a young man mentioned your name today."

"My name?" said the woman.

D'Artagnan spoke up. "He asked for Marguerite. He mentioned your tavern. We can only assume you are the Marguerite in question."

She nodded. "I suppose so. But if this person knew me, I did not know them. Why would he refer you to my pub?"

"It wasn't for your wine," said Aramis, "though it was quite excellent, Mademoiselle. No, I'm afraid it wasn't mentioned in any light circumstance."

She shook her head. "I don't understand."

Athos stood, his voice quiet and vaguely sinister. "The boy was murdered. He said your name. He gave us this." He held out the scrap of parchment with the Greek words.

She took it from him; she was very good at giving nothing away. She didn't look at him overly long, and in the time that she did meet his eyes she offered no telling looks.

Her eyes flitted across the paper. "I can't read this," she said.

"But you can read?" D'Artagnan said. It was as uncommon for a lowborn woman, even one in business, to read as it as for a farmboy from Gascony.

She nodded. "Yes, I can. My mother taught me. But—this is gibberish." She handed the paper back to Athos. "I'm sorry, Monsieurs. I understand why you felt obliged to question me, but I don't know this person you speak of and I don't know why he wanted to deliver this to me."

Athos felt a small fire prompting him to push for more. "It is written in Latin. It translates to a passage from Homer's _Iliad_. Does that mean anything to you."

She looked at him, her hazel eyes connecting with his dark blue ones. "No," she said.

And there it was. The smallest lack of conviction, a seed of disinterest that only comes from an experienced liar.

"We don't know the identity of this boy. We would ask that you come see him, to be certain you've never met him," Athos said, in the way he had of asking while at the same time demanding.

"You want me to view a dead body?" she said with the appropriate amount of horror. Now that Athos had convinced himself of her lies, he could see—her melodrama was an apt mask.

"It would help us greatly, Mademoiselle."

"I cannot. I have a business to run. Besides, I told you—I don't know anyone who works at the palace. Now if you will excuse me," she said turning away, "I have other patrons."

Aramis moved to stop her. "Mademoiselle—"

"Woman!"

This was bellowed from across the room. The noise in the tavern had escalated so that no one but the woman and the Musketeers took notice, but that might have been because of the large unpleasant man striding toward them.

The man passed by the Musketeers without a glance. Mademoiselle Defoe was behind the bar now, cutting bread and cheese methodically as though she had not heard the man. He tossed a purse on the bar; it clinked with the sound of coins. "There," he said, or spat, "there's your damn gold. Fifty livre, so you can't turn me away this time. I want a girl, now."

Mademoiselle Defoe didn't even pause in her cutting. "I'm afraid we cannot accommodate you, Monsieur. Can I interest you in a drink and a meal instead?"

The man slammed a fist on the bar. Aramis' hand went to his sword's hilt instinctively, but Athos made a motion to stop.

"Four bloody times, you've said that," the man growled. "And how many men do you let in instead of me, eh? I've paid you the money, now—"

"I won't take your money, Monsieur," said the woman, sounding as though she had repeated this many times. "I apologize for the inconvenience, but this establishment caters only to certain gentlemen approved by Monsieur Rosier, the owner. I cannot allow you upstairs without his approval; if you have not secured that, your gold will not help you."

His meaty arm shot out, quick for a man of his size, and seized her wrist. The knife in her hand seemed pitifully small compared to the stature of her assailant.

"I don't give a damn about your owner or his rules—I want a whore for my gold now!"

Mademoiselle Defoe's voice was soft—she neither pleaded nor threatened. In fact, her voice sounded rather hollow. "You will maintain your distance, Monsieur." Color had evaporated from her face, but she did not show any outward signs of fear.

"Will I?" said the man.

Aramis and D'Artagnan were on their feet, and Porthos looked like a cat about to spring. A large cat.

"So particular, bitch," the man growled, the hand around the woman's wrist growing redder in tandem with his large bearded face. "No whore, then. I'll just have to settle for you."

His large, thick fingers brushed her neck clumsily, and what happened next was as sudden as a pheasant bursting from the underbrush—Marguerite's eyes flashed at the touch and she struck out, spasming. The clap of her hand connecting with his face rang across the pub. He surged with rage and hit her across the face—she went to the floor, her knife clattering into a corner, and Aramis drew his sword.

"Stop right there," Aramis ordered, the silver of his rapier blazing in the dim firelight. The man seemed more enraged by the confrontation.

"Out of my way, runt!" he growled.

"Unless you want a bellyful of my steel, I suggest you leave," Aramis said menacingly, placing the sharp tip of his sword against the man's chest.

"You're drunk, Lombard," someone called. "You should leave!"

The man surveyed the situation—four Musketeers eyeing him ominously and a silent crowd of onlookers not in his side. He sneered. "Fine." He reached to retrieve his purse, but Aramis' rapier slapped the back of his hand.

"As I recall, you handed this to the mademoiselle willingly," he said casually. "Must have been a gift."

"You little—" The man lunged to Aramis, and the other three Musketeers moved in unison, drawing their swords smoothly.

"Trust me," Porthos said, "today is not the day to trifle with Musketeers, especially not us."

Lombard looked venomous. "I'll get you for this," he spat.

"I doubt it," said Athos. "Be off."

The drunkard lumbered off, slamming the door behind him. Slowly, the noise returned to the tavern, though several eyes watched the Musketeers.

Aramis sheathed his rapier and went to Marguerite, helping her to stand.

"Are you hurt, Mademoiselle?" he asked gently.

She shook her head. "No, thank you, Monsieur." The side of her face that had been struck already looked slightly red, but her eyes were clear.

Athos wasted no time. "It seems you owe one of us," he said. "If not your life, then something near to it."

Marguerite Defoe regarded him. "Life is the only important thing. Everything else I can survive." She turned to the rest of them. "I will see the body. I do owe you something."

Athos put his had on his head. "We will collect you tomorrow."

"Mademoiselle," said Aramis with a courteous nod. D'Artagnan and Porthos followed him to the door, leaving Athos last. Before the door shut, Athos heard her voice, slightly casual and entirely mocking:

"My regards to your cat."


	4. Part 1: Chapter 4

Chapter four

"What was that?" D'Artagnan looked very young, blinking in the dark outside the Maiden's Heart.

The four of them all seemed to be a little flustered from their short encounter with Mademoiselle Defoe as they made their way back to the garrison. Porthos had a twisted little smile on his face, shaking his head as though he was on the edge of laughter, while Athos seemed to melt into the shadows, hiding his face beneath the brim of his hat.

"That," said Aramis with a grin, "was a woman."

D'Artagnan looked petulant. "Damn your eyes, Aramis," he retorted. "Does she know the boy or not? Is she going to help us or not? I can't decide."

"She's a viper," Porthos agreed. "I like her."

"You would," said D'Artagnan.

"She's lying." Athos's eyes were dark, his voice darker. "She knows more than she's letting on and she's not afraid to pretend otherwise. I don't trust her."

Aramis rolled his eyes. "She could be telling the truth and still you wouldn't trust her. You don't trust anyone."

"I resent that," Athos said bitingly. "I trust the three of you with my life, such as it is. But I don't trust people like her. Especially women like her."

There was a cold silence as they walked in the dark, the sounds of the city enlivened at night echoing through the rain-damp air. Athos's words brought back fresh to the mind the events involving Milady, Countess de Winter, Anne de Breuil, whatever her real name was—her apprehension and exile had happened only three months ago, but her ghost still stalked the most melancholy of the Musketeers. They worried for him; betrayal was damaging coming from any kind of associate, but from one's wife…. It seemed as though Athos would never be able to look at the world, especially the fairer sex, in a forgiving way again.

"It's been a long day, lads," said Aramis, clapping an arm around D'Artagnan's neck. "What do you say to a pint?"

Porthos grinned. "D'you even have to ask? The first to get too drunk to walk pays for us all next time."

All eyes went to D'Artagnan, who threw up his palms. "Don't look at me," he said, and Aramis laughed.

"Coming, Athos?" Porthos barked in his gruff way.

Athos gave them one of his soft almost-smiles. "Enjoy yourselves. My company is fit only for myself tonight. We'll begin early tomorrow." Then their friend turned and disappeared into the shadows, a specter of painful memories and honor.

D'Artagnan looked after him. "Should we leave him alone?"

Porthos shrugged. "When he asks, he usually means it. Besides, keeping away from the drink can only be good for him."

D'Artagnan sighed. "I've been here for nearly a year, and still I don't understand him."

Aramis laughed a little humorlessly. "We've known him for four years longer and we still don't understand him. But you don't have to understand Athos—you just have to let him be, and that's good enough."

At the Maiden's Heart, Marguerite Defoe cleaned away the remains of supper. No one remained in the tavern; her regular customers had learned to leave in the early hours of the morning to give her time to clear the space of the night's events. Her face smarted still from Lombard's rage as she scrubbed vigorously at a pot with sand; she did not fear the man's violence. All men were violent in one way or another, in varying intensities; but Lombard was filled with hate. Such a degree of hate for a stranger was dangerous, and that hate rattled her bones.

The door swung open, and her eyes jumped from her work, for a moment fearing Lombard had returned to finish what he started, or retrieve his money at any rate; it remained untouched, stuffed into a teapot in the kitchen. But it was not Lombard who entered her tavern. Two men, dressed entirely in black, their faces shadowed in the candlelight walked to her.

Marguerite set down her rag, feeling suddenly very tired.

"It was an eventful night, we heard," said one, leaning against the bar and fiddling with his pipe. He was younger than his companion, with youthful eyes and curling dark hair.

She sighed. "A man caused a ruckus, nothing unheard of in a tavern."

"Is it also not unheard of, for a patron to strike you?" said the other man, motioning to her face. He was older, with a short greying beard and eyes wrinkled by the sun. His face and voice were perpetually stoic, she'd learned from the past.

She ducked her face, the side Lombard had struck throbbing slightly. "Unusual, yes, but bearable," she said. She continued scrubbing at the pot.

"We could always find this man," said the young man in black. "It's not outside our skillset. And your life would be less troublesome."

Marguerite looked up. "I am not the kind to sign off the death of a man, Marius. No matter what kind of man he is."

"Then you are a better person than most."

Marguerite's wrist ached from scouring the stew pot. The silence that fell was not easy, filled only by the harsh sound of sand on iron and Marius's burning pipe.

"There were Musketeers in tonight," she said in her quiet way. "Asking questions."

"What else are Musketeers good for?" Marius drawled. "Them and their ridiculous blue coats."

His companion was more focused. "What did they want?"

She shook her head. "I only gathered pieces. A boy died at the palace and they're investigating it. They think he knew me."

"Did he?" said the older man. "Was he one of yours?"

Marguerite looked at him steadily. "That's none of your concern, Lupin. But they'll be back. I am to identify the boy's body."

"The Musketeers aren't our allies," said Lupin. "They serve the king; their honor blinds them."

"Do you believe that, or are you sore because you never made it as one of them?" Marius said with an air of knowing.

Lupin paid him no mind, only looked Marguerite in her eyes with a disturbing determination. "You can't trust them," he said, and she let out a small breath of air she had been holding.

"I can't trust anyone, Lupin," she replied. "Not even you. Do you have your coins?" She retrieved her accounting book from under the bar and they produced pouches of livre, which she counted meticulously and marked precisely on the parchment: _35 livre for Angelica, 20 for Harriette – Spaniards. _

"Upstairs, then," she said, closing the book. The men went to the stairs, leaving Marguerite to her work. "And be gentle in waking them. It's been a long day."

"Get some sleep, Marguerite," called Marius from the stairs, with more care than his general nonchalance. "Your eyes are tired."

She could hear their footsteps above her, creaking the floorboards and their soft voices as they roused the girls. She scrubbed more furiously than ever, blood close to the skin in her fingertips.

_My eyes _are tired, she thought. My_ soul is tired._


	5. Part 1: Chapter 5

Chapter five

The next morning, Athos was alert and ready before any of them; even before René, the replacement cook, was making the horrible plaster he called porridge, Athos was sitting in the commons, smoking his pipe and watching the sky morph from cool periwinkle to morning blue. The cat was curled around his feet, purring contentedly, when Aramis joined him.

"Have a good sleep?" he said dryly, but when Athos looked at his friend, Aramis saw that he didn't look as though he'd been drinking, and he looked to be in a better mood than he'd expected.

"Yes, thank you for inquiring," Athos replied.

"And when I say 'did you have a good sleep' I mean, 'did you sleep _at all_'?"

"Yes, Mother, I did," Athos mocked. "Now where's breakfast?"

"Probably still holding a couple of bricks together." This came from d'Artagnan, followed by Porthos, who always resembled an angry bear in the morning.

"I salute all my fallen brothers-in-arms," growled Porthos as he joined them. "But more than anyone I miss old Lafitte. He would never have us eating the mortar we have now."

"When you learn to cook, you can complain," said d'Artagnan.

"You call what you do cooking?"

Aramis snorted. Since d'Artagnan's initiation, the others had forced him to do the most menial tasks, including cooking during their escapades, which he did with a wry smile and a knowing look. They all had the feeling that one day, he'd make them regret it.

Now, d'Artagnan was grinning. "I don't hear you complaining when you're shoveling in my food like a horse at a trough."

René was coming towards them with a pot and a dangerously satisfied expression. They all stood and put on their hats.

"Why in such a hurry, lads?" René said jovially. "And without breakfast?" He hoisted a ladle of gray porridge from the pot and let it fall back down with a sloppy smack.

"No time, I'm afraid, René," called Aramis, who was the best liar.

As they left the garrison, d'Artagnan said, "Besides, I thought you liked my cooking."

Aramis cleared his throat awkwardly, "Ah, D'Artagnan, we've been meaning to tell you…"

Porthos snorted and they were all laughing. It was moments like these, when they could manage to forget that an assassination attempt on the king had happened just yesterday, that their lives were constantly in danger. Athos smiled. Yes, these were the moments that made it worthwhile.

The coroner worked in the catacombs under the city, to "keep the bodies cold and fresh." The entrance to his lair looked, well, like a lair—a gaping mouth into hell with a foul stench rising from its depths, but Marguerite Defoe seemed unperturbed as she stepped bravely down the steps in the darkness.

If there was a single word to describe the woman, it would be "unperturbed." She was unperturbed when they arrived at the Maiden's Heart to take her to the coroner's. Unperturbed when she had to abandon her business to the young girls that worked for her. Unperturbed walking next to four fully armed men, who drew gazes no matter where they went.

Athos had to wonder if she was putting on a good face, if she was really capable of masking her emotions so adeptly, or if she simply didn't care. He was finding it difficult to distinguish between his admiration and his mistrust.

The two bodies were laid out side by side, the killer and the victim. The boy looked so much smaller than his murderer, and Athos regretted the disrespect of keeping his remains here. He couldn't have been older than fourteen.

Marguerite Defoe seemed to be thinking the same thing. Her mask of indifference loosened slightly, gazing at the corpse of a child.

"Do you know him, Mademoiselle?" asked Aramis.

"Yes," she breathed very quietly, then blinked and repeated firmly, "Yes. His mother and sisters live not far from me." She took a deliberately deep breath and moved away. "His name is Thomas Fabre. His father has been dead since he was small, and he made the employ of a nobleman nearly four years ago. I had no idea he worked at the palace."

"So why did he ask for you of all people, in the moments before his death?"

She shook her head. "Sometimes when he ran errands he came to me to deliver letters to his mother. Is it possible the message is intended for her?"

"I don't see how," said Aramis. "Not unless she's fluent in Latin and reads Greek tragedies."

Athos stepped closer to Marguerite, his dark eyes intense and urgent and—accusing?

"This boy died saving the life of the King," he said, watching her carefully. "He deserves the truth from you."

Her mask had returned, but her hazel eyes were sad. "I know what he deserves, Monsieur—more than he ever received. But I can't tell you the truth if I do not know it."

After a moment Athos nodded and looked away. He couldn't say if she was lying or being truthful; his inner compass in this matter was spinning, rendering him confused.

Aramis approached her courteously, and Athos frowned. Aramis was the easiest of them, the friendliest of them. He had a way of being gentle not only in action but also judgment that Athos admired and coveted. He wanted to speak to the woman as gently as Aramis did now, but doubt suspended his manners—he looked into her face and saw Anne's staring back at him, malicious and beautiful and sad.

"Do you know how we can contact his family?" Aramis said now.

Marguerite nodded. "Yes, but I ask that you give his mother some time before interrogating her as you have me. Thomas was beloved to her, and her sole breadwinner—his death means abject poverty for her and her daughters."

"We will show all due respect, I assure you," Aramis promised before Athos could say anything.

"Athos," said d'Artagnan. He and Porthos had been searching through the assassin's belongings and looked hopeful. "We found something."

"Excuse us," Aramis said as they joined the others. She hovered near the wall, turning her back to them slightly, perhaps to give them privacy.

"The assassin's name is Lenoir," d'Artagnan told them. "But there's not much else to identify him."

"Except this." Porthos held up a folded note with a broken seal.

"What is it?"

"An insurance of payment," said Porthos. "The assassin was paid to kill the King."

"Why would a Jesuit need payment?" Aramis frowned. "They aren't usually motivated by money."

"Unless the Jesuit isn't really a Jesuit," said Porthos, looking at the man's inert body.

"But look at this," said d'Artagnan. "There's no signature on this document, but there is—"

It was a bird, drawn hastily but expertly where a signature might be—wings unfurled, a small beak and a forked tail.

"Cryptic," said Aramis, both annoyed and impressed.

"It's a goldfinch," said Porthos, and the others looked at him, taken aback.

Aramis snorted. "How the hell do you know that?"

Porthos rolled his eyes. "I'm not always as stupid as I make myself out to be. I've seen this as on coat-of-arms before."

"Anyone's in particular?" asked Athos.

Porthos shook his head. "It's fairly common. And I don't see how it connects to the assassin."

"Milady used forget-me-nots as a signature," d'Artagnan mused, glancing quickly to Athos but he didn't seem to be bothered by the mention of his wife. "Perhaps the goldfinch is being used in the same way."

"Which would make him a person," Aramis said, nodding.

"Or her," Athos amended, glancing to Marguerite in the corner.

"Which means we have another person to find before we solve this," said Porthos, irritated. "And we still have this to make sense of." He pulled out the obscure note Thomas Fabre had given them before he died and let it fall onto the table beside the dead boy.

"One step at a time," said Athos, though he was feeling overwhelmed as well. There were too many pieces to this puzzle, and none of the edges were lining up. Nothing about this had been simple, not since that groom had leapt to take a knife for the King.

"I think we should begin by—" D'Artagnan began, but Athos gave him a look and they all fell silent, suddenly very aware of Marguerite Defoe's presence. They moved a little farther away, but avoided looking at her.

"We start by being extremely cautious about who we trust," Athos said in a low voice. "Treville's given us his permission to solve this by any means necessary, which means we should speak to no one about it, not even the others in the regiment. Understood?"

They nodded, though Athos didn't need their reassurance. He knew the others so well by now it was as if they were all extensions of the same soul, operating as one being. Aramis, being the most charming extension, turned to Marguerite.

"We beg pardon, Mademoiselle," he said respectfully, "for occupying so much of your time. You must be very busy, and we're thankful for your assistance. Permit us to escort you back to the Maiden's Heart—"

Not taken in for one second, but still expertly composed, Marguerite cut him off. "Thank you, Monsieur, but I do know my way back and I had errands to run."

"It would be most ungentlemanly to allow you to leave unescorted," Aramis protested.

Marguerite smiled slightly, as though to say, _So is bringing a woman to a morgue_, but she merely said, "I am quite capable, and if you will forgive me, I have had enough of Musketeerss for one day." She gathered her cloak around her and went to the ascending stairs. "Good day," she said, and left.

Her absence was like letting air back into the room. Athos felt lighter, but not necessarily better, as though her gaze had been heavy upon him, and without it he reeled a bit.

"Athos, please tell me you have some idea about what to do next," Porthos said when they left the coroner's dungeon.

"Feeling a little out of your league?" Aramis teased, but Porthos merely scowled.

"The King was almost killed, don't forget. And if it was just someone to find, then it would be fine." He stopped, frustrated. "But there's no one we can just shoot or capture. Just a couple of blasted pieces of parchment!"

"Speaking of which, can I see the note Thomas had?" asked D'Artagnan, and Porthos dug around for it in his jerkin, and growled when he couldn't find it.

"I left it in the coroner's," he said, and Aramis groaned.

"I know, I know," sighed D'Artagnan, mimicking Porthos. " 'Fetch, D'Artagnan!' You know, one of these days, I'll stop pretending to be your dog." He darted back down the entrance to the coroner's.

"Ungrateful little pup," said Porthos, and Aramis snorted.

D'Artagnan returned, but without the note. "Are you sure you left it down there?" he said. "There was nothing."

Porthos swore loudly and Aramis shook his head. "Cunning little vixen," he muttered.

"You think Marguerite took it?" asked D'Artagnan.

Aramis shrugged. "Who else? We were too occupied trying not to let her hear our plans to notice that she lifted the note. She'd be a smooth pick-pocket, likely."

"What now?" said Porthos.

"We still have the goldfinch to go by," said Athos, "and it's much more likely to lead us to the killer than the other. We should start inquiring about it, who might use it, where they might be—discreetly, of course. Try your contacts, but be as vague as possible. And don't trust anyone."

"What about Marguerite Defoe?" Aramis asked as Athos put on his hat.

Athos turned away. "Leave it to me."


	6. Part 1: Chapter 6

Chapter Six

Marguerite Defoe had not lied about one thing: she did have errands to run. She went to the market and exited with several parcels containing bread, cheese, fruit, and meat in a basket. Athos could not get close enough to hear her exchanges with the grocers or the butcher, but her actions did not seem suspicious. They wouldn't though, he thought darkly, if she was as good as he thought she was

He almost lost her in the crowd at the market. It was nearly four in the afternoon, having taken him hours to find her after she left the coroner's that morning, and the streets were busy. But Marguerite Defoe showed no intention of returning to the Maiden's Heart, though they were quite far from the tavern and the evening crowd would be starting to frequent the establishment. Athos was beginning to consider confronting her outright instead of following her movements, which seemed no stranger than buying a bottle of wine from a merchant selling clocks.

That is, until she ducked down a side street and spoke quietly and quickly to a man looking at a display of books. He was taller than her by nearly a foot and dressed all in black, from his hat to his jerkin to the laces of his boots. He was as young as D'Artagnan, perhaps, or a little older, but quiet composed and showing genuine interest in a copy of _Nobilt__à__de dame_. They exchanged no more than a few words before Marguerite handed him the note, as if she were handing him an apple and not a cryptic message involved with an assassination attempt on the King of France.

The two conspirators parted ways nonchalantly and Athos was torn between pursuing the man to retrieve the message, or continuing tailing Marguerite Defoe. In the end he followed her as she appeared to return to the Maiden's Heart, but as they neared the familiar area of the city, Marguerite turned to a door and knocked.

Athos observed from an alley as a young girl answered the door.

"Hello, Colette," he heard Marguerite say, though he could not see her face. "Goodness, you've grown since I saw you last. Is your mother at home?"

A middle-aged woman with tired eyes and tear-marks on her cheeks came to the door and gave Marguerite a watery smile.

"They've told you, then," said Marguerite with sympathy. "I am so sorry, Loraine. I can't imagine your pain, but I will miss Thomas as well."

"Thank you, Margot," the woman whispered. "I still think he's going to come home one of these days. But he lived a better life than I could have given him on my own, better than was expected for him. I have you to thank for that."

"I know his wages were important to you." Her voice was sensitive and gentle. "And as I have some part to play in your loss, I've brought you some food, and I'll continue to do so every week. And, when you feel ready, you can send your oldest girl to work for me. I'll take care of her."

Athos could see fresh tears in the woman's eyes. "_Merci_, Margot. God bless you."

It began to drizzle as Marguerite made her way back to the Maiden's Heart. An omen, Athos thought. She turned down a deserted alley and he couldn't contain himself any longer.

"Did you lie to her, too?" he called, a dangerous rage building in him. She turned, startled. A jolt of pleasure ran through him, knowing he could rattle her, surprise her, shatter that unperturbed mask.

"You've been following me," she said.

"For some time," he replied, prowling closer like a cat.

Under the hood of her cloak, her face was pale, especially around her pursed lips, but her eyes were fierce.

"I thought I had adequately removed myself from suspicion."

"You have adequately proved yourself to be deceitful."

"Deceitful? How—"

"Your act is very convincing, but I don't have the patience for it." He was close enough to notice the small freckle below her left eye. "You stole something of ours."

She scoffed. "Yours? I thought it belonged to poor Thomas Fabre."

"It is vital to the security of the King, and so it belongs to the Musketeers. Where is it?"

"I don't have it," she said, confident in this half-truth.

"No, you handed it off to another. Who is your accomplice? Or are you the accomplice?"

She was shaking her head. "I am not your enemy, nor the enemy of the King. I am not a danger to anyone."

"You think I will believe a word you say now? After I have discovered that you have lied about everything since the moment we met?"

She laughed humorlessly. "Then why are you here, Monsieur? If you saw me give away the note, why didn't you pursue it? Why come after me?"

It was raining in earnest now, and he realized he was bellowing. "Why have you lied? Is there anything you say that can be trusted?"

"I have my reasons! Am I to reveal my secrets immediately to every stranger I meet?"

"When your secrets involve the King's safety, yes."

She was shaking, either from cold or anger, so hard her hood fell to her shoulders. "How many times must I tell you? I mean no harm to the King! And if you weren't so stubbornly blind to that fact then you would believe me!"

Before he could think, he seized her arms with a steely force, puppeteered by a years-old anger. "I did not believe you from the moment I saw you. I would not trust you if my life depended on it. I know your kind."

With a surprisingly strong wiry energy she wrenched free from his vise-like grip, matching his anger with her own. "My _kind_? You have been burned by fire and now live in the darkness in spiteful revenge."

The rain burned on his hot skin like acid, and her hair hung in dark thin ropes around her face. At her words, the cold of the rain began to creep in to him, biting at the edges of his core.

She was like a wild animal with wide eyes and bared teeth and fits clenched by her side, and he could not tell if the water on her face was the rain or her tears.

"I know about your wife, Olivier de la Fère. How she betrayed you. How you attempted to take justice into your own hands. How she has hunted you for revenge ever since. If this is adequate reason for such blatant distrust of my sex, I assure you, sir—I have tenfold reasons to distrust you and the motives of every man!"

There was a loud silence as the rain tore down upon the cobblestones. Her hazel eyes were so filled with hate. A sour sickness pooled in his stomach.

He pointed to her, his voice returned to its menacing softness. "You stay out of this. I don't want to see you again, or hear your name. Stay away."

He left her in the rain, wet and with only a thin cloak. It was not an honorable thing to do, but as he prowled the streets of Paris, taking mouthfuls of strong sour wine, Athos wondered if he had any honor left.


	7. Part 1: Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

The garrison was deserted and awash when Athos arrived, still raw and angry and fighting the thin fog in his head from the wine he'd drunk. He longed for more of the stuff, to force down the bitter liquid until he couldn't tell if his eyes were open or closed, until he couldn't remember the last two days. He wanted to hack at the practice dummies in the yard until they were shredded. He wanted to hit something, he wanted to—

"Athos!"

He started at the sound. D'Artagnan call to him from Treville's office above.

"The captain wants to see us," the young Musketeer said, and disappeared inside.

Treville sat behind his desk, surrounded by his best Musketeers, but the mood was glum.

"Nothing," said Treville. "Two days of investigating and you have found nothing."

"We have found something," said Aramis. "It just doesn't make sense."

"Your contacts?" asked Athos.

Porthos shook his head. "They're is clueless as we are. None of them have ever heard of this goldfinch. So either he's new to the criminal scene—"

"Or he's so good he's never been heard of," said D'Artagnan.

Athos kicked a chair with cold fury. It clattered against the wall, shattering the silence. The others exchanged glances. Outbursts from Athos were dangerous because he always appeared so calm outwardly, even when there was a storm inside.

Treville stood, buttoning his jerkin. "I'll take the news to the king, and ensure him we are doing all we can." He went to the door. "Meanwhile, I suggest you go beyond conventional means to solve this. Next time you come to me, I want answers."

Treville left, and it was uncomfortably quiet. Athos still stood at the window, looking out into the rain.

Porthos broke the silence. "Now what?"

"Well, if you can't get them to come to you," said Aramis, "you go to where they are."

Athos turned, and his friends were relieved to see his mask of calm back in its place.

"Let's go find ourselves a Jesuit."

–––

The man finished his meager meal and threw a few coins on the table. The tavern was filled in the evening with travelers partaking of the lukewarm goulash on the menu tonight, or locals getting drunk after a day's work. A local himself, the man exited out the back door, turning up the collar of his cloak against the cold.

The alley was deserted, except for a few starving street cats and an unconscious drunk slumped against the stone wall. Maneuvering around a few crates of rubbish, the man was nearly to the main street when a figure blocked his way.

"Hello there," said the figure, his voice boisterously pleasant and the shoulder guard on his arm gleaming with a fleur-de-lis. "Fine evening, isn't it?"

In a flash of movement, the man drew a knife and lunged. His opponent dodged the blade and knocked it from the man's fist.

"_Mon dieu_, monsieur, do you always greet people this way?" The Musketeer feigned a hurt tone.

"This is how I greet Musketeers!" the man spat and hit the Musketeer in the face, then turned and fled back down the alley.

In an instant, the drunk crouched against the wall sprang to his feet, a flash of silver in his hand, at the same time as two figures emerged from the rubbish crates.

"Slow down, there," one taunted. "All he did was greet you politely."

"Always the gentleman," said the other wryly.

The drunk flung off his ragged cloak, revealing a fleur-de-lis shoulder as well, and grabbed the man, flinging him against stone.

"We are looking for someone," said Athos. "And you can tell us where he is."

"A Jesuit named Lenoir," Aramis added. "One of your brothers-in-arms, we take it."

The Jesuit spat and struggled. "I don't know the name—and if I did, I wouldn't tell you!"

"Right," growled Porthos. "Because we're Musketeers, servants of the King, your sworn enemies."

"Who can, by the way throw you in prison for attacking says loyal servants of the King," said D'Artagnan.

Athos' hand on the Jesuit's throat tightened. "Lenoir," he said. "Where is he?"

The Jesuit sputtered. "Which one?"

Athos squeezed harder, but Aramis put a hand on his friend's shoulder.

"What you mean?"

The Jesuit's voice rasped from his mouth. "There are two. Brothers. One is dead."

"Where is the live one, then?" said Aramis, exasperated.

The Jesuit's face was deeply purple now. "Rue St. Jacques—across from—the church—please—"

Athos released the man, who fell to his knees gasping gratefully for air.

"That wasn't so hard, was it?" said Porthos. D'Artagnan rolled his eyes and offered a flask to the Jesuit, who took it and drank, still sputtering.

He looked up at them, eyes bright with fear and defiance. "Are you going to kill me?" he croaked.

"What? We're not brutes!" Porthos scoffed.

"To be fair, we did just bring down within moments of asphyxiation," said D'Artagnan, looking pointedly at Athos.

Aramis cleared his throat. "We appreciate your assistance," he said to the Jesuit in his usual pleasant tone. "And in appreciation we will not put you in prison for assaulting the King's Musketeers, or for conspiring with a seditious society. However, we can't have you warning your friends before we have a chance to find Lenoir, so—" Aramis struck swiftly, catching the Jesuit across the jaw, and the man crumpled unconscious to the cobblestones. "Sorry about that," Aramis added, massaging his knuckles.

"Now we're getting somewhere," said Porthos excitedly. "Two Jesuit brothers. If we can find the other Lenoir, he can tell us who ordered the assassination."

D'Artagnan stepped over the unconscious body to Athos.

"What was that?" he asked, both incredulous and angry.

Athos straightened his jerkin, eyes hidden beneath his hat's brim, but his shoulders taut and his movements tense, like a coil of wire before it was about to spring apart. Aramis looked between them as if unsure whose side he would take.

"You nearly killed him, Athos!" D'Artagnan said.

"He would never have talked otherwise." Athos' voice was dangerously quiet.

"That's never mattered to you before."

Athos' jaw clenched. "It's not your business."

"It's all of our business!" D'Artagnan looked at his friend with wounded eyes. "What is wrong with you?"

Athos turned his back on his friends, his shoulders relaxing. His voice was barely audible above the frigid wind. "I don't know," he said. "I don't know."

Inside the house on Rue St. Jacques, the members Jesuit brotherhood were slumped around the table and the weak fire, chewing on stale bread, drinking wine in silence, and playing a dismal game of cards.

One man glanced at a door leading to another room.

"Don't even ask, Buevier," said his companion in a low voice, his eyes on his cards.

Buevier turned back to the table. "He's been in there for nearly three days," he said nervously.

"He's mourning," Roland, a man standing by the fire, growled before downing a glass of wine.

"We all are," said Buevier. "Vigo, speak to him."

Vigo shook his head. "He's dead drunk and sitting with a loaded pistol. I'll not go in there 'til he's sober."

"He shouldn't be in there, shut away, he shouldn't be—"

"Wouldn't you be as he is, Buevier, if you were in his place?" said Vigo.

Buevier threw his cards down furiously. "I would be out there hunting down the bastards who did this!"

"They're Musketeers, Buevier," said Roland. "You'd be asking for your own death sentence."

"This is what we do, Roland, we fight the King! We take revenge!"

Vigo looked at him sharply. "It's not yours to take."

They stiffed as a muffled knock interrupted them. There was a sudden scuffling for weapons as they abandoned their cards and wine, positioning themselves strategically around the room, poised for a fight. Vigo, one hand cocking a pistol, reached for the door handle.

"_Bonsoir_," said a quiet female voice.

Vigo flashed the pistol at her. She was small and waif-like, but the face peering at him from under her hood was strong and cunning enough to rouse his suspicions.

"What do you want, woman?" the Jesuit asked.

The woman looked at the pistol calmly. "I'm here to see Monsieur Lenoir, _man_."

She lowered her hood to show her hair, long and loose and almost blue in the moonlight. The skin of her throat and chest glowed ethereal white.

"We've no use for a whore," said Vigo.

"No doubt you couldn't afford one, either." She smiled, somewhat sincerely. "But no matter. I'm a gift from the Goldfinch. He offers his condolences to Monsieur Lenoir."

Vigo scoffed. "He sends a prostitute to atone for the death of our brother?"

Behind him, Buevier said, "Send her away, Vigo!"

The whore said, "At least tell Lenoir and let him decide for himself. I can offer him comfort in a way none of you can."

Vigo's lip curled. "Leave, bitch—"

"Let her in." The Jesuits turned, startled. The door behind them was opened halfway, and a dark figure stood there.

"Lenoir," said one softly. "We didn't mean to disturb you—"

"I said," Lenoir growled in his deep voice, "let her in."

No one dared contradict him. Reluctantly, Vigo opened the door to let the woman in. She moved quietly, the deep red fabric of her skirt making no sound upon the floor. Vigo worried that Buevier might kill her before she made it across the threshold, but his compatriot merely scowled and stared at her breasts.

The woman made to follow Lenoir, but Vigo stopped her. "Wait," he said. "We must search you for weapons."

She looked at him with her hooded hazel eyes, a small sneer on her lips. She unfastened the ties of her cloak and let it fall, exposing her shoulders and arms, tantalizingly bare. She turned in a circle mockingly, her cloak over one arm and her hair long and straight down her back, smelling faintly of sandalwood and cedar. The curve of her throat and the line of her collarbone above her breasts was enough to make any man ache.

"I really only have one," she said. When no one replied, she said in a mock-whisper: "Ill give you a clue—it's under here," and tugged at her skirt.

Vigo shoved her towards Lenoir's door, and someone spat in her direction, but she didn't seem embarrassed or ashamed. She moved like a queen in a whore's clothes.

Inside the room, the fire was unlit. There was no light save for a thin shaft of moonlight escaping between a gap in the curtains, and the air was stale with the smell of wine and bitterness. She blinked in the darkness, waiting for her eyes to grow accustomed to the lack of light. She could hear him moving, the floorboards creaking under his weight, the sound of his breathing like the huffing of an animal.

She heard him fall into a chair. "What's your name," he said, his voice low and slightly slurred and miserable.

"Marguerite," she said. "And yours, monsieur?"

He scoffed in the dark. "You know my name."

"Yes, my proprietor told me you are Lenoir, the leader of the Jesuits under his patronage." Marguerite took a step forward, looking into the corner where she thought his voice came from. "But who are you, monsieur?"

Lenoir sighed. "My name is Etienne Lenoir. And my brother is dead."

"I am very sorry for your loss," she said quietly, genuinely. "You were close?"

"As close as brothers can be. Twins, we are—were. My younger brother. He was sickly when we were born. My father nearly smothered him, but my mother wouldn't allow it. He was always trying to do in Eriq, my father was. My mother stopped him until she died. And then it was me who had to protect my twin." Lenoir took another swig of wine. "And it was me who got him killed."

He looked at her, his face more defined in the dark now. "Come closer," he said.

"I've never met a twin before," she lied, obeying him. "Did he look like you?"

"The spitting image," said Lenoir. "It frightened my father. He thought we were the spawn of the devil, that our mother had lain with some fairy. I took Eriq away from that place as soon as our mother died. I made a name for us. I found us our own family."

"Yes, that's it," said Marguerite. "Tell me about it. You'll feel better when you do—" She was only a few feet from him now, and suddenly with remarkable speed for someone so drunk, he lunged and pulled her to him, his hands large vises on her hips. His face was somewhat level with her ribcage and only inches away. She fought the urge to dig her fingers into his eyes.

Lenoir was whispering more to himself now, as his hands felt around her midriff. "It was my fault. I was the one who said we needed more money. I was the one who took that bloody aristocrat's coins and his orders. I shouldn't have done it."

"Aristocrat?"

"He sent us money anonymously, a gesture of goodwill, he said. Then he came to us and said he had instructions from some foreign nobleman to fund our living if we did what he said occasionally. When you're starving it seems like a good idea. Then the foreign bastard sent a letter with instructions to kill the King." He shook his head; she could feel bruises blossoming on her skin beneath his hands.

"Isn't that what you and your men strive to do? Rid us of a useless king?"

"We weren't ready! Perhaps we'll never be ready." He covered his face with his hands. Marguerite knelt before him; his stench was overwhelming at this proximity.

"I refused. No matter of money is worth the life it would take to accomplish such a task. But Eriq—" Lenoir have a small sob at this brother's name. "He couldn't understand. 'We need the money,' he said. He was furious that I wouldn't seize the chance to kill the king. I couldn't make him understand. And then one morning the letter and my clothes and pistol were gone. And my brother was dead, shot by Musketeer sons-of-bitches!"

Lenoir's reasonable state was deteriorating. The soft moonlight shone off the tears on his face, and his breath was coming in hysterical gasps.

"Lenoir," she said, taking his large wet face in her hands, "who is the Goldfinch?"

"He thought he could hide from me, sending me money and cryptic notes through that blueblooded messenger. But I found him. And I'll kill him." The tears were still on his cheeks, but his voice had taken on a cold resolute tone. It sounded dangerous. His hands began to wander again, finding the front of her corset, digging for her breasts.

She tried again. "Who is the Goldfinch? Who was his messenger? Who ordered you to kill the King?"

"Take off your clothes," he breathed. His hand fumbled downward and gripped between her legs.

With the speed of a threatened animal, she twisted his hand away and grabbed the pistol shoved in his belt. Hoping very much the ball had been loaded, she readied it and pressed the barrel against his forehead.

"Tell me who the Goldfinch is," she said, standing and abandoning her gentle tone.

Lenoir looked up at her, his eyes blurred with drunkenness.

"Do it," he whispered, almost enraptured. "Do it."

There was muffled thumping from the other side of the wall—a struggle? Marguerite knew she had to act quickly.

"Tell me who the Goldfinch is," she said levelly, "and I'll do it. I'll put your out of your misery. Tell me, and I'll give you back to your brother."

Gazing at her as thought she was the Angel of Death, he whispered, barely audible. There was a thunderous pounding, as though someone had fallen against the door, followed by muffled shouts.

Marguerite swallowed and steadied her hands, readying herself to pull the trigger as she had promised.

A gun shot from the other room reported like a thunderclap. She whirled toward it, startled. It was a slow prophetic moment, and Marguerite knew that when the door opened, her life would be forever changed. Even before she felt the blow to her head from behind, even before the pistol was wrenched from her hand, she knew she had made a fatal mistake.

The house on Rue St. Jacques was shrouded in mourning. The windows were draped and shuttered, the doors shut and bolted. From the street it looked abandoned.

"I doubt it," said D'Artagnan, gesturing to the thin ribbon of smoke trailing up from the chimney. "There's smoke. Someone's home."

"It could be full of Jesuits," said Porthos.

"It likely is." Athos turned to his friends. "They won't want to talk. Likely, they'll be intent on killing us like the last one."

"Yes, best we smother them all just to save time," D'Artagnan retorted sarcastically.

"D'Artagnan," Aramis warned. D'Artagnan scowled but was silent.

"Porthos, Aramis—enter through the back. We'll subdue as man as we have to and learn what we can."

"Right. Let's none of us die, all right?" said Aramis as he and Porthos left, rounding the corner of the house. Athos and D'Artagnan remained crouched until the others were gone, then approached the house carefully.

"I know you're angry—" Athos began.

"Now's not the time," D'Artagnan snapped.

"It is." Athos paused to check his pistol. "You know why I did it."

"Athos, you could kill a thousand Jesuits and I wouldn't question it, because I know you and you always do the honorable thing. But that was _not _the Athos I know. That was not honorable. And I know there's something wrong. I'm not blind."

Athos listened silently, and D'Artagnan was about to move away, exasperated. Then:

"It's the woman. Marguerite Defoe." Athos spoke flatly, emotionlessly, the way he did when the emotion was too strong for him to bear. "She—the business with her brings back memories."

D'Artagnan sighed. "She's not your wife, Athos. She's not Milady. She's different."

"How?" Athos asked softly, but they would hear faint struggling within the house and knew Porthos and Aramis had entered. It was only a matter of moments before all the house's occupants discovered what was going on.

Athos went to the door, one hand on his pistol, and banged against the wood.

"Open this door," he shouted, "for the King's Musketeers!"

Then with a powerful kick, he broke open the door. Inside there were shouts, chaotic and unintelligible words. One Jesuit raised a pistol and fired, missing D'Artagnan narrowly.

There were nine men in all; Athos counted the unfamiliar shapes as they scrambled for their weapons and attacks haphazardly. Four had already been dealt with by Aramis and Porthos, who were dueling again. The Jesuits had clearly been caught off guard, but they fought with furious zeal. Athos discharged both of his pistols and drew his sword, squinting against the acrid gun smoke. There was a sickening crack as D'Artagnan broke a Jesuit's jaw with the hilt of his rapier, before grabbing him by the front of his jerkin.

"Where's Lenoir?" D'Artagnan shouted. The man gasped and gagged, blood trailing from his limp mouth. His eyes burned hatefully but betrayed him as they darted to the side-room door. D'Artagnan let the man fall to the floor, writhing in pain.

"Athos," he said, and the others converged on the door. Aramis tried the handle.

"It's locked," Aramis said. "Paranoid, these Jesuits, aren't they?"

"Lenoir!" Athos bellowed. "Come out." There was no answer. Porthos heaved against the door with his bear-like strength until the doorframe cracked and the door burst open. The Musketeers rushed in—and froze.

"Stay where you are!" Lenoir—it could only be Lenoir—screamed, his eyes wild and bloodshot as he pressed a pistol to Marguerite Defoe's throat. "Stay, or I'll kill her!"

Marguerite stood as unperturbed as ever, or at least she appeared at first glance to be unperturbed. She did not cry or beg or struggle—because what's the point? But her hands were clenched in tight white fists at her sides with only a small gleam of fear in her eyes. A small trickle of blood crept down her neck from a cut on her head, black against her skin.

"Let's not be hasty," said Aramis, trying to be soothing.

"Are you them?" Lenoir asked raggedly, his desolate face glowing madly. "The bastards who killed my brother?"

"Your brother attempted to assassinate the King, Monsieur Lenoir," said Aramis.

Lenoir jabbed the pistol into Maguerite's neck so deeply that she gagged, and Aramis took a hasty step back.

"And you sent this whore here to distract me!"

Athos met Marguerite's eyes, which were strangely vacant. As if she knew she would die, and did not care.

"An error in judgment," he said calmly, still holding her gaze. "Please, let her go."

"And then you'll kill me, like did my brother, shot like a dog!" Lenoir took a step back, dragging Marguerite with him.

"You'll be given a trial to answer for your crimes against the King." The Musketeers stood tensely, watching like hawks, ready to spring to action as Lenoir shuffled toward the door. It was a deadly dance as they circled each other, all the while watching the other like animals seizing each other up.

"And what of the King's crimes against me?" Lenoir screamed. Marguerite struggled and stumbled against him and he pressed the pistol to her temple.

D'Artagnan started forward.

"Don't! He'll do it," said Athos. His heart pounded wildly, fear pricking in his fingers.

Lenoir had reached the door, and violently he dragged Marguerite through it, stumbling as he threw the table and chairs behind him. The Musketeers sprang after him, tossing the furniture aside and spilling onto the street.

"Where did he go?" Porthos growled. But Athos paid no attention; Marguerite was pushing herself up from the ground, thrown against the wall. He ran to her.

"What the hell were you thinking?" He heaved her up, suddenly noticing the scandalous nature of her dress.

She caught her breath, putting a hand to the cut on her head. "Don't pretend that you would understand," she said tiredly.

"Lenoir!" Aramis shouted down the street, raising his pistol. The Jesuit was nearly a hundred yards away. "Stop!" Aramis fired, the crack of the gun fire roaring loud.

Lenoir stumbled as he was hit, but managed to raise his own pistol.

"Get down!" shouted Porthos. In the scramble for cover, Marguerite threw herself in front of Athos as the gun reported, echoing through the air.

D'Artagnan raced to Lenoir, who toppled to the ground, limp as a doll.

"He's dead!" D'Artagnan called.

"Aramis!" Porthos said, annoyed. "We were supposed to bring him in alive."

Aramis looked affronted. "It's _dark_!"

Athos looked to Marguerite, who swayed. "You're hurt," he said, reaching to examine the cut on her head, but she pulled away.

"I'm fine."

"You could just say thank you," he retorted. She swayed again, falling against him.

"Blood," she said.

"What?"

She shook her head weakly, looking down at herself. "There's…blood. A lot of blood." Her legs gave out and she folded to the ground, and in the faint moonlight Athos saw the stain of dark blood blooming across her bare shoulder, flowing across her chest and disappearing into the black of her corset.

"Aramis! She's been shot!" He was tugging off his cloak to press it against the wound, his own blood drumming frantically in his ears as the others crowded around them, speaking loudly and quickly, but Athos could hear none of it, could only see her white face as she looked at him, her bloodless lips barely moving to say, "You're welcome."


	8. Part 1: Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

Pain was a haze around her, a veil around her face. It was the cloak around her shoulders, the arms clutching her desperately. Pain sharpened the night. Everything was knife-like, silver and severe, and it hurt to keep her eyes open, it hurt to hear, to breathe. The world around her was painful. The edges of her skin were frozen, but her core was burning, she could smell it, singed flesh, scorched blood. She tried to tell them, the men, the Musketeers who rushed to save her, tried to say _I am on fire. _But the blood was absent from her lips and her brain and she could only blink against the pain. Blink up at his face, the one who held her. She knew he hated her, he had made it clear, but his arms were firm and there were lines on his face—he looked white in the moonlight, even his dark eyes burned coldly. The fire in her chest licked at her, and she cried out.

Limp in his arms, Marguerite made a sound of pain and Athos tightened his grip on her, as though it could keep her longer in this world. Her blood was on his jerkin in black smears, dripping from his gloved hand. _Oh God._

"Aramis…" he growled.

"We need to get her somewhere safe," Aramis said beside him, his hand clamped on Marguerite's wound as they moved. "I can't do anything before then."

"We're almost to the Maiden's Heart," said D'Artagnan, panting.

"Athos!" This came from Porthos; a figure in the shadows loomed suddenly, dressed all in black. Swords were drawn in an instant, flashing silver beams. In his arms, Marguerite made as noise as if to speak, and Athos gripped tighter.

"Stay back, we're King's Musketeers," ordered Porthos fiercely.

The man stepped into the weak moonlight, and Athos saw that he was younger than he expected, perhaps a little older than D'Artagnan, armed but holding no weapons in defense. There was an attitude of panic in his face as he looked at Marguerite's limp form in Athos' arms.

"What have you done?" he hissed, and surged forward.

Porthos kept his sword pointed steadily at the man's chest. "Remain where you are."

Aramis muttered, "We don't have time for this."

The man looked simultaneously furious and panicked. "Damn the Musketeers! If you've killed her, I will see you all suffer!"

Athos suddenly recognized the man. He was the man in black to whom Marguerite gave Thomas Fabre's note, her accomplice. Her lover? He seemed as frantic as they were at the sight of her wound, all of her blood. He was aware of a hasty impulse of—what, jealousy, disapproval?—prickle inside him. Athos pushed this thought aside. It was more important that she was alive than involved with another man.

"She's been shot," he said, and the man met his gaze. There was a mirrored horror in both sets of eyes. "We must get her to the Maiden's Heart."

The man's jaw clenched and he stepped around the swords, his movements taut and furious, as if daring them to stop him.

"Then _I _will take her." He thrust his arms around Marguerite, heaving her from Athos. She gave a small cry as her wounded shoulder pressed against the man's chest, and her eyes blinked madly. The man looked down at her helplessly. "Oh, Margot…"

"She's in shock…" Athos said, almost to himself, but the man was hurrying away, into the house, clutching Marguerite tightly.

Somewhere behind him, a thousand miles away, he heard his name. "Athos…" He turned to the others. He saw his own disbelief reflected in their faces. Of all their adventures, they had yet to encounter one like this. How many times, Athos thought, had they risked their lives? How many times had he killed men and heard gunshots, so many times that he'd stopped jumping at the sound of them? How many times had he seen blood, and witnessed collateral damage, unfortunate souls caught between the deeds of foul men and the Musketeers' duty to the King?

It had ever been like this.

"We should tell Treville about Lenoir," said Porthos, his deep voice rumbling like thunder from under the brim of his hat. "We've his body to take care of."

"But we still don't know anything." This came from D'Artagnan. "We don't know how Lenoir is connected to the assassination attempt—if he's connected at all!"

"He ran, didn't he? He shot Mademoiselle Defoe. That looks pretty guilty to me," Porthos retorted.

"Looking guilty isn't the same as being guilty." D'Artagnan ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "Athos?"

Though his hair felt near failing and his limbs were weak from action, Athos spoke. "Porthos is right. We don't have anything to connect Lenoir to the attempt on the King, but Treville must be informed nonetheless." He turned to Aramis, who shook his head.

"Even if they send for a surgeon immediately, he'll never make it in time. She's in danger of bleeding to death, and I'm her best chance at survival."

Athos nodded. "Then go." Aramis turned and entered Marguerite's house.

"We'll go to Treville," said Porthos.

D'Artagnan still looked to Athos, his dark eyes seemingly shining directly into Athos' thoughts. "What about you?"

It was more than just a question, a casual inquiry of where he would go. It was more than concern, more than fear. It was a challenge. Would he return to the garrison with his brothers-in-arms, report to Treville, and continue on the same miserable path he had paved for himself—or would he choose something else?

"Go to Treville," Athos said, and made his choice.

He heard shouting.

Athos rushed through the rooms of the house, searching for the rack and Marius and Aramis and Marguerite… Athos could hardly see. There were few candles or fire lit, leaving the rooms in shadow. The house had a motley feel, organized in a strange fashion that gave the feeling that it was well-lived in by more than one person. It was actually two cramped houses joined together and to the tavern.

"This is on your head!" bellowed an unfamiliar voice, likely that of Marius. "I will be damned if you have anything more to do with her!"

He found them in the sitting room, lit by a dim fire. They had laid Marguerite on a pallet on the floor as close to the fire as she could be without burning. The ruddy firelight made her look less like a corpse.

Aramis seemed to be in a stand-off with Marius, who had a hand to his knife, a clear message. Aramis had his hands up in surrender, but Athos could see the frustration on his face. "I am trying," he said in a dreadfully calm voice, "to save her, you prating fool."

Marius advanced on the Musketeers. "And I will repeat myself. We don't want your help." He turned, moving nervously. "Solenne, I told you to fetch the surgeon!"

Athos saw a young woman—one of Marguerite's whores?—crouched by Marguerite's side, sponging her shining forehead with a cloth. "There's no time, Marius—"

"Goddammit, she's going to die—!"

"Sir," said Athos, who felt a renewed spasm of panic at the sight of Marguerite's pale body smeared with blood, but he managed to speak with force. "This woman helped us tonight. We mean only to help."

The young man in black fumed. "You mean to absolve yourselves of guilt? You are the cause of this, and nothing you do will ever—"

"Enough."

Her voice was uneven and hoarse, like that of a ghost's, but it was also determined. Marguerite had one hand clamped on her wounded shoulder, bright precious blood seeping through her fingers, as she hoisted herself up, face clenching in pain. There were smears of blood on her face and all down her front, painting her skin a horrid red.

"Marius, enough," Marguerite said. "Solenne, please—fetch my kit." She sagged. "Oh God."

Aramis pushed past Marius, catching Marguerite before she fell and lowering her back onto the pallet. "Are you a physician, mademoiselle?" he asked, in his soothing voice.

She shook her head weakly. "Midwife. But I have…some knowledge of—healing."

Marguerite's girl came back with a carefully organized basket, containing vials and rolls of cloth, and tools Athos had never seen.

"Thank you," said Aramis. "I'm afraid you've caught me ill prepared for such a surgery, Mademoiselle Defoe."

She lurched up in a spasm of pain and choked, "It's Marguerite. My name—is Marguerite—" She cried out, clenching her teeth so hard the muscles in her jaw shuddered under her skin.

Aramis hushed her, smoothing back her hair, and Athos felt something unfamiliar in him, something he hadn't felt for what seemed an eternity. It was jealousy—of a kind. He wanted to be the one being so tender to her, but he had no skill in surgery. He was useless.

He turned to Marius. "Perhaps we should—"

Marius looked mutinous. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Marius." The gasp came from Marguerite, who looked suddenly panicked. The man moved to her side, clutching her sticky bloody hand. "Marius—you must tell her. If I am to die—"

"You won't, Margot, you must stay strong!" Another flare of jealousy bloomed in Athos at Marius' words. Was there love in them?

"Marius, please, go to her. You must warn her—she must know what to do—if I don't survive—I beg you…"

The man nodded, looking very young, and pressed her hand. "Please be alive when I return." He stood and pushed past Athos, vanishing into the dark.

There was a ruckus on the stairs, and Athos turned to see several young women, some of them even girls, wrapped in shawls and dressing gowns, looking terrified.

"What's going on?"

"Solenne?"

"Who are these men?"

"Margot!"

Solenne, who had one moment ago seemed close to tears, took on an air of authority. "Enough! Amelie, I need you to boil some water. Hariette, we need fresh linens, as many as possible. The rest of you, back upstairs. We need quiet."

And surprisingly, the girls obeyed with no argument and with haste. Aramis had cleaned the wound, enough to see the damage clearly. Concern flitted over his face before he remembered to be comforting, but Marguerite saw it.

"There is no exit wound," she guessed.

Aramis nodded reluctantly. "Which means the ball is still in your shoulder. I'm afraid I'll have to remove it."

"I understand," she said.

Aramis turned to Athos almost apologetically. "I'm going to need your help."

"I'm no healer, you know that," Athos said.

Aramis shook his head. "To hold her down."

Dying would be easier. Easier than this battle, with men's hands wrenching and clawing inside her and pinioning her down. They had misunderstood her shaking for coldness and put her near the hearth, but inside she was a forest fire. She had swallowed hot embers, heat smothering her, billowing out from her mouth as she gasped.

And screamed. Even in this haze she still felt her pride reining her back. Screaming made the task of healing no easier, she knew. Instead she gritted her teeth and blinked at the ceiling through tears.

"Aramis!" Their faces were there, going in and out of a fog as the pain colicked like the waves of the ocean she once crossed. Athos—his face was there, soft and melancholy and the color of ashes.

"I don't have it yet," the other said through clamped teeth. "Forgive me, Marguerite…"

She convulsed and clambered for words. "Solenne—I'm going to be—sick—"

Solenne, the perfect medical assistant, level-headed no matter how emotionally invested, was there with a bowl and Margot arched upward and heaved, though nothing came of it. The spasming of her body—God! Could there be more pain than this?

"Drink this, Margot." Solenne. Solenne with a small brown bottle, holding it to her lips. The liquid was bitter—she gagged but swallowed. Laudanum would bring a cushion between her and the pain, a blessed relief.

Aramis was cleaning the operating utensils, sweat shining on his brow.

"The worst is not yet over," she said, surprised as the levelness of her own voice, though she lay dying. "But I feel I must thank you for trying, Monsieur, to save me."

Aramis smiled, or grimaced. "I have never had a better patient. And my name is Aramis."

Athos breathed quietly next to her. She felt, as surely as she felt her lifeblood leaving her, his heat bleeding into her. Though she wasn't struggling, his hands were still there, on her side, on her arm, firm as if willing her to live. She turned to him, and saw her blood on his face in small spheres, bright like rubies.

"You shouldn't have been there," she said.

Athos shook his head minimally. "We had business there. King's business—"

"Killing Jesuits and ruining my plans? Is this the business of the King?"

Athos made to speak but stopped himself. "I cannot argue with you when you are—"

_Dying_. The word hung between them, a white flag, an olive branch.

"I am sorry." The words slipped from her, and she felt so peaceful. It was a bad sign. If she was to live, she should fight and be discontented. But she felt peaceful and ready to sleep.

"For what I said to you. I do know about your wife. I know she betrayed you. I said it—I meant to hurt you."

"As I meant to hurt you," Athos said quietly. He had a gentle voice, soothing when he was not accusing or spearing her with hate, hate born from another woman but given to her.

"I see so much of her in you," he said. He seemed surprised by is own words.

Margot was not. "I think you see much of her in yourself."

Aramis had returned, tools in his hands and determination in his eyes.

"We must act quickly," he said. "You shall live, Marguerite, I swear it."

She breathed in deeply and steadily, mimicking the sound of wind or the beat of music or a baby's breath—something comforting, something to send her to sleep. Athos gripped her harder, tensing as if he were the one bleeding, the one in pain. She was grateful that this close to death she had no fear.

Aramis plunged into her wound one last time, and Marguerite closed her eyes.


	9. Part 1: Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

She was asleep. The wound was cleaned and dressed, and Athos held the lead ball that Aramis had wrested from her flesh in his palm. It was so small, no larger that the nail of his littlest finger, and yet it had carved a hole so deep and bloody in her chest.

Athos was a man of war, or he head been for the last six years since he renounced his title and joined the Musketeers. He had seen death. He had faced it himself, looked it in the eye and trembled but remained strong. He had seen innocents die as well, women and children covered in blood. He had heard their screams. He had avenged them as best he could, and mourned them. He had sent his own wife to the noose, and lived with the false knowledge that he had killed her for what had seemed an eternity.

He was loath to admit, as he stood in the kitchen of Marguerite's strange whorehouse, caressing the round lead ball with his fingers, that this was different. That the panic he had felt at Marguerite's brush with death was not the same as other experiences he had had. He told himself it was guilt that was plaguing him, for how he had treated her the previous afternoon, for inflicting his rage for his wife at her.

Athos found that, adept as he was at lying to himself, he was not able to do it this time.

Aramis joined him in the kitchen, the cuffs of his shirt speckled with blood. He helped himself to a bottle of wine, sinking into a chair with a sigh.

"She's sleeping, thank the Lord," he said, taking a swig. "A combination of laudanum and exhaustion. Solenne is cleaning her up now." He leaned back, eyes to the ceiling. "What a miracle," he said, and crossed himself.

Athos envied Aramis' faith most days, and now he was grateful for it. "A miracle you were here."

Aramis shook his head. "I did what I could, but she held on. I inflicted such pain on her, the bravest of men would have given up the ghost. But she held on—it's unlike anything I've ever seen."

Athos did not reply, but he felt his friend's gaze. He berated himself—_do not make yourself so easily read_, he admonished, and fixed his features into their customary expressionless form.

They heard soft footsteps approaching, and turned to see Solenne, looking exhausted. Solenne held a bundle of bloodstained clothes. In all the action of the past hours, Athos found he had never looked at her properly.

She seemed younger now that she was not issuing commands and following Aramis' orders with precision. Her long fair hair was plaited messily, and her features were soft and utterly normal—not, Athos thought, the typical face of a whore.

"I've cleaned her and changed her clothing," she said. "She rests, but fitfully. I think she may have a fever."

Aramis nodded. "That's to be expected. As long as it breaks within a day, she should be fine enough."

The girl nodded. "I must thank you, monsieurs, for your help. Marguerite is the healer in this house. I am learning, but—I could not have done what you did. You have my thanks." She smiled and swayed, catching the edge of the table for balance. Both Musketeers moved to assist her, but she waved them away.

"I am well. Just tired." She placed a delicate hand on her abdomen. "And the little one is as well, I think."

"You're with child?" Aramis said a little too incredulously. Athos himself was surprised. A pregnancy was not welcome news to a whore—men were not interested in prostitutes fat with babies, which meant no work and no money for months on end. It was a common practice for whores to rid themselves of such unwanted children—for if they were born, they would themselves be gutter rats or whores.

"Congratulations," said Athos, feeling slightly ill.

But Solenne smiled slightly as if she knew what they were thinking. "Only a few months along yet, and I'm constantly dizzy." She owed them no explanation, and she knew it. "I must go to the others. They must be worried sick about Margot." She excused herself, and they watched her go, wearing twin expressions of horror and admiration.

Athos sighed, his brow furrowed.

"What is it?" asked Aramis.

"Lenoir." Athos rolled the lead ball between his fingers absently. "What does Marguerite have to do with him? Why was she there?"

Aramis thought. "It seems she gleaned more from Thomas Fabre's note than we could have, as it was intended for her. Some clue must have lead her to Lenoir."

But Athos was shaking his head. "She gave the note to Marius—the ill-tempered man who seems to know her, and she did so before finding the Jesuits."

"She knew about Lenoir—because _we _knew about Lenoir. Not about him exactly, but the Jesuits." Aramis' excited voice took on a tone of admiration. "She saw the assassin's body in the coroner's cave, an assassin dressed as—"

"A Jesuit," Athos finished, nodding. "And somehow she knew of Lenoir's whereabouts."

"The real question," Aramis said, "is what she went there meaning to do. Perhaps she wanted to avenge Thomas Fabre?"

Athos pondered the idea. "She is…passionate, but not, I think, the kind to rush into vengeance. And if she were an assassin herself, Lenoir would be the one with a bullet in his chest, not her."

Aramis whistled. "What have we gotten ourselves into this time?"

"More than you can possibly imagine."

The voice came from the door, which had opened during their musings. Marius stood there, but it was not he who had spoken, but rather a woman. She was hooded and cloaked, and her skirts brushed the floor softly—the telltale sound of silk. She raised her hands—gloved, but delicate—and lowered her hood.

Aramis and Athos stood at attention, partially—_entirely _out of shock. Anne d'Autriche, the queen of France, stood in the doorway of this whorehouse. Her fine features were very serious and when the Musketeers bowed, she held up her hand.

"Please, gentlemen. When I travel outside the palace, I must do so completely incognito. There must be none of the usual niceties." Her voice was different—Athos had heard it like this only once before: during that disastrous adventure at the convent. There, the Queen had taken on a persona that seemed almost _common_, losing any frailty or frivolous tone she might use at court. Until now, Athos had not thought that she was being _herself_, stripping away any mask she might wear for necessity in her husband's foreign court. She was herself now, and she was worried.

"Forgive me, I cannot yet explain—but I must swear you to silence. And now, Marius—"

Marius was already leading the way to the other room where Marguerite slept. Athos and Aramis followed, still reeling. Marius was kneeling at Marguerite's side, stoking her hair from her forehead.

"Margot," he whispered, and it hurt Athos to hear him say her pet name with such tenderness. "Margot, wake up. That's it."

Marguerite's hazel eyes, overly bright with fever, blinked first at Marius, and then at the Queen standing behind him. And she groaned.

Aramis was next to her in an instant. "What is it? Are you in more pain? Perhaps I missed a piece of the ball—"

"_Marius, you bloody idiot, what is she doing here?_" Marguerite hissed through clenched teeth, batting away Aramis' hands. "If you thought recklessly endangering the life of _the Queen_ is what I meant when I asked you to tell her—then you are sorely mistaken and I don't care how many bullets riddle me, _I will kill you myself_."

Athos had his hands on her good shoulder, forcing her down, and he was surprised that he had to work to keep her from rising. The Queen took Aramis' place and Athos tried very hard not to see the look Aramis gave her. If he didn't see, then perhaps he could imagine it away. There were too many lovers in this room, and Athos was overrun with them.

"You will not blame Marius, and neither will you kill him," said the Queen, partially commanding but partially wheedling. Who was Marguerite that the Queen would _wheedle_ to her? "I forced him to bring me here. My dearest friend, how did this happen to you?"

Marguerite relaxed at last, and reluctantly, Athos removed his hand from her damp shoulder. Solenne must have dressed Marguerite in a flannel shift and wiped away the blood and combed her damp hair.

"I was performing your work, your Majesty," said Marguerite with definitive fondness. Athos exchange a glance with Aramis, for the Queen's words—"_my dearest friend"_—had not been lost on them. "Albeit taking certain matters into my own hands."

The Queen was fussing—_fussing_, over a tavern owner and whorehouse mistress, pressing her hand to Marguerite's clammy brow, checking the bandages at her shoulder. "Is that not why we have employed Marius and his brothers-in-arms? So that you would not have to take matters into your own hands, Margot! So that you could oversee the workings of this ridiculous plot _safely _from this place. Were you so restless you had to put your life in the hands of an assassin?"

"My life was not so in danger," Marguerite argued, and Marius snorted derisively. "Not at first. I went to Lenoir as a whore; you know how men are about women." She waves a hand dismissively. "And I knew that I was the only one who could approach Lenoir and uncover any answer of merit—the Musketeers certainly tried it their way, and see how it ended."

"We were investigating the attempted assassination on the King, your Majesty," Athos felt obliged to interject. "Our investigations lead us to Lenoir's hideout. We were unaware of Mademoiselle Defoe's involvement."

"And you couldn't have been aware. You are not at fault, Athos. Margot is the soul of discretion, you see." The Queen looked to Marguerite. "I suppose there's no scolding you. I know it would do no good."

"It really wouldn't," Marguerite agreed. "But I sent Marius to you—Anne. Lenoir was contracted to kill the King. The Musketeers discovered this much, and the document proving it—it bears the mark of the Goldfinch."

The Queen's face turned somber. "Him again. His threat grows greater, and he is getting closer."

Marguerite shifted slightly. "Yet if he wished the King dead, I believe he would be. If that were the Goldfinch's intent, he would not hire a drunken Jesuit with a simpleton brother; he would hire the best assassin in France—or in Europe."

Anne blinked. "What do you mean, in Europe?"

Marguerite coughed, and coughed again, wincing at the pain of it. "Lenoir did not know the identity of the Goldfinch because the Goldfinch used a go-between, a messenger of sorts. I'm certain this person could lead us to the true identity of the Goldfinch."

"Who? Who is it?" Anne asked.

Marguerite took a breath. "Barthelemy."

Anne gasped. "What?"

"The Minister of Finance," Marguerite clarified. "He forwarded the Goldfinch's instructions. He paid the Jesuits for the assassination. He's working for the Goldfinch."

"The Goldfinch could be any wealthy man in Europe who is an enemy to France," Marius surmised. "A king, even."

There was a moment of silence. "A plot—headed by the King of England, perhaps?" Anne said, hushed.

Everyone in the room registered their surprise. England was not an ally of France—relations between the two countries had been strained for hundreds of years, but an assassination attempt was unprecedented in the present political climate. They expected this behavior from Spain, but not England.

Marguerite shook her head. "Political tension is rising in England. Charles' popularity is waning—the last thing he would do is alienate a possible ally when he needs all the help he can get. I believe the Goldfinch is acting independently, or perhaps in alliance with Spain. We all know the nobility is not above such corruption." She turned, to Athos' surprise, to him. "You must arrest Barthelemy for his treachery. It would not be fitting for an independent party such as myself to do so."

"How?" Aramis asked. "We have no proof, except your word and the word of Lenoir, who, because of my excellent skills with a pistol, is dead."

"The other Jesuits," Marguerite said. "Vigo, perhaps, or one of the others. I'm sure if pressed they can provide the necessary evidence to convict Barthelemy of the assassination attempt."

Athos frowned. "The Minister did not act alone in this. The Goldfinch as well—"

"We don't have enough knowledge of the Goldfinch, and I'd rather we continued to operate under the pretense of being ignorant of his existence." Marguerite looked in Athos' eyes, her own burning bright with fever and exhaustion. "Let Barthelemy take the fall for the assassination attempt. And when you apprehend him, find out what he knows about the Goldfinch. And then—tell me."

Athos and Aramis exchanged a glance. Justice was their chief directive, but God knew they often manipulated justice to fit the King's agenda. This time, it would be to benefit the Queen.

Marguerite winced, and Anne's worried eyes softened.

"Enough of this, brave girl. You must rest—you have a fever." The Queen's eyes filled with tears as she gripped Marguerite's good hand. "Be less cavalier with your life. It is precious to me."

"As is yours to me, my queen." Marguerite smiled despite the pain, weariness etched on her face. "Now return to your gilded palace, and do not venture out so recklessly again." Her eyelids fluttered down, and it seemed a great effort for her to raise them again.

The Queen stood, smirking. "Then don't give me a reason to. Get well."

Marguerite followed the Queen with her eyes and then looked at Athos, as if sensing his confusion. How could such a woman have close connections—if one could call this bond a close connection—with the Queen? His doubt was creeping in again, filming about his eyes like a fog. He could no longer see Marguerite as clearly as he had only an hour ago. But he met her tired eyes, bright with firelight and fever, and understood the message she gave him. _Trust me._

She had saved his life, sheathed a bullet with her own body to spare him. He would trust her.

Athos and Aramis followed the Queen out of the sitting room, some part of them unconsciously trailing her as they might if they were on duty at the Louvre. But the situation was too strange to pass as anything less than bizarre. The _Queen_, here, in Paris, in this motley whorehouse, lavishing concern and endearments on a common woman—Athos felt an urgency for answers, for he knew he could not look the King in the eye without them.

"Your Majesty—" Aramis began.

The Queen turned to them abruptly, a mask of royal command fixed upon her lovely face. "I will say this once to you—I have relied upon your loyalty countless times before, and I will do so again now: you never saw me here. You are to speak to no one—not your captain, not the Cardinal, especially not the King—of what happened tonight. As far as you are aware, Marguerite Defoe and I share no connection beyond that of a queen and her subject. Do you understand?"

"As far as we are aware, none of this should be happening at all!" Aramis retorted heatedly, then added, "Your Majesty."

Anne sighed, morphing back into the young woman who was somehow softer than the woman who was queen. "The less you know, the better. The Cardinal has spies everywhere—yes, even within the Musketeers regiment. Nowhere is safe, not even here, I suppose."

"Is that what this is about?" said Athos. "The Cardinal."

"His influence has grown too strong. And Louis has never been the kind to stand up to him. So the only option left to those of us who oppose the Cardinal is to fight fire with fire." Anne smiled wearily. "Though I admit I am not well-suited as a spymaster."

The air seemed to leave the room. How many more surprised would Athos have to survive this night?

"Espionage?" Aramis breathed, and Athos understood his incredulous tone. It was difficult to imagine the kind Queen Anne dealing in secrets and intrigue.

The Queen paced a few steps as she spoke. "It has been evident for some time that the Cardinal is using his unmatched connections to forward his own agenda. Fortunately, for now, his agenda aligns with that of France—but his arm has stretched too far and we cannot risk his turning. That much was evident three months ago when he tried to have me killed. Marguerite has suspected this for some time. At first she dealt in rumors—what the Spanish merchants boasted in their taverns, what soldiers gossiped about in barracks. Simple to collect and pass on—but political secrets and intrigues? Thank God she is brilliant. Her connections are not as widespread as the Cardinal's but they are infinitely more loyal. And no one suspects. Why would they? A brothel and tavern owner, a spymaster for the Spanish Queen of France?" She laughed quietly.

"Wait—" Athos felt he did not have adequate air in his lungs. "Wait. You mean to say that this place—those girls upstairs…."

"Are spies," the Queen finished, nodding. "Perhaps not in the conventional sense. But they collect information from men whose tongues are loose around women, and they decode the cyphered messages Marguerite's messengers deliver. They are very intelligent girls—Margot finds them, takes them in, educates them—she teaches them languages and mathematics and gives them work they needn't be ashamed of, and they serve their queen and France."

"They needn't be ashamed? But the world thinks they are whores," Aramis said, looking horrified.

"And we are very careful to keep that lie alive." Marius spoke at last from his place in the corner, a watchful shadow. "It was Margot's idea. She understands these things."

"It's disgusting," Aramis retorted.

But Marius only shrugged. "More disgusting than leaving them with fathers who beat them, or sell them? More disgusting than giving them to husbands who rape them in the night and cheat on them in the day? More than letting them grow up in the gutter and end up truly selling their bodies?" The man, who was as young as D'Artagnan but nothing like him, sneered. "How little you know, Musketeer, even less that you see."

"Enough." The Queen looked the Marius, and he obeyed, but they had such an understanding between them that Athos felt dread growing inside him. This was not the queen he had come to know. And yet, he thought, had he ever thought to know her as a person, as more than a political thing? And who was he to think he knew her? To think he knew anyone?

"I tell you all this because—because you are loyal servants of France, and you know, better than most, what kind of creature the Cardinal is. And I think Marguerite will be in need of your help. _I _will be in need of your help."

She sighed, looking far older than her young years. "I cannot stress the necessity that this remain utterly secret. It will mean telling Treville you could not find the man behind the assassination. It may mean the displeasure of the King. And if you continue to keep this secret, it may mean a thousand other inconveniences and dangers."

They were quiet for a moment as Athos and Aramis exchanged looks. It was needless; they knew and the Queen knew that they would follow her anywhere.

"We will take this secret to the grave if necessary, Your Majesty," Athos said for both of them, and the Queen smiled. "From our own brothers, if needs be."

"Oh, you might as well tell Porthos and D'Artagnan. I can't imagine secrets living long between the four of you."

Here Athos and Aramis did exchange a needful glance. They had not told the others about Aramis' indiscretion with the Queen. Athos did not like to think of revealing that to them—he didn't like to think of it at all.

"And Marguerite may have need of all of you in the coming times, if we are to uncover the Goldfinch's identity." Somewhere nearby, a lantern clock chimed two past midnight. "I must return to the palace. Nearly all my handmaids are spies for the Cardinal and they cannot find me gone."

"Allow us to escort you back safely, Your Majesty," Aramis said with only a nib of desperation.

But the Queen could hardly look him in the eye. Instead, she replied: "There is no need. Marius and his brothers-in-arms will take me there—it is their sworn purpose, to protect me when I am unduly reckless."

"Brothers-in-arms?" asked Athos.

Anne nodded. "They are soldiers, paid with money from my coffers, and they are as diligent in their duties as the men in your regiment. If your duty is to protect the King, then these men might be seen as the Queen's Musketeers, if you will."

This seemed to amuse Marius greatly, though Aramis seemed to take offense to the comparison.

"If they are merely sell-swords, how can you be sure to trust them?" he said hotly, eyeing Marius.

The Queen raised an eyebrow. "Does your wage lessen your loyalty?"

Thank God they both digressed. The hectic nature of the evening was finally reaching Athos, fatigue wrapping around him like a cloak. He put a hand out to steady himself against the wall, and noticed a piece of flowered needlework serving as décor. He wondered who had done it—Marguerite, or Solenne? Or one of the others? There were women in this house, girls—not whores reduced to a mere dismissive term, but intelligent, brave girls, and Marguerite, with all her lies, was one of them.

"God be with you, my Musketeers," said the Queen, who then turned to Marius before sweeping out the door, far too graceful for even the average merchant's wife in the city. "And for heaven's sake, Marius, keep her alive, will you? I want reports from Solenne everyday until she's out of danger."


	10. Part 1: Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

Dawn came at last. A Musketeer was foremost a soldier, and sleepless nights were as common to them as restful ones were to civilians. But as the weak sun rose and turns the clouds the soft color of eggshells, Athos felt unutterably tired. The exhaustion was deep inside him, deeper than his bones, hunched in the ridges of his brain.

They had left Marguerite sleeping. Her fever broke just after the Queen left, as if her presence was the treatment needed to bring Marguerite out of danger. When Aramis was satisfied that his patient would survive his absence, he and Athos quit the Maiden's Heart, and leaving it behind was to Athos both a great relief and a small ache. They could no longer look at the place as a whorehouse and tavern. He could no longer distance himself from it, and from the people inside.

Dawn came at last. A Musketeer was foremost a soldier, and sleepless nights were as common to them as restful ones were to civilians. But as the weak sun rose and turns the clouds the soft color of eggshells, Athos felt unutterably tired. The exhaustion was deep inside him, deeper than his bones, hunched in the ridges of his brain.

They had left Marguerite sleeping. Her fever broke just after the Queen left, as if her presence was the treatment needed to bring Marguerite out of danger. When Aramis was satisfied that his patient would survive his absence, he and Athos quit the Maiden's Heart, and leaving it behind was to Athos both a great relief and a small ache. They could no longer look at the place as a whorehouse and tavern. He could no longer distance himself from it, and from the people inside.

The rising sun now found them, along with D'Artagnan and Porthos and Captain Treville, striding through the palace corridors.

"You are certain of this," Treville said not for the first time, over the clatter of the armor on the mass of Red Guards marching behind them. "It wouldn't improve the situation to falsely accuse a minister to the king."

"We have a signed confession," said Porthos, holding the document up as they neared Barthelemy's offices. Indeed, a confession had been recorded and signed by a Jesuit who survived the musketeer raid on Lenoir's hideout. The signature was barely legible, as the interrogator had broken most of the man's fingers in order to get it. "There's no mistaking it—the minister funded the assassination attempt."

"So he is the Goldfinch, then?" D'Artagnan asked. "That doesn't seem to fit."

Athos and Aramis exchanged a glance—their information on the Goldfinch came from Marguerite, who at all costs must remain anonymous.

"We'll know soon enough." Athos scowled. He didn't like lying to Treville, and he hadn't yet had the time to explain everything to Porthos and D'Artagnan, but they knew enough. They knew Marguerite Defoe was not who she appeared to be, and that her presence at Lenoir's hideout was, for better or worse, the only reason they now had cause to make an arrest.

They had reached the minister's offices. Athos turned to the half dozen Red Guards and said firmly, "Wait here."

"We have orders to take the minister to the Chatelet," said one, then added, "from the Cardinal."

Treville frowned. "You'll take him when we're through with him and not a minute before. Understood?"

A sickly hollow feeling was creeping into Athos' insides as Porthos went to the doors and tried the handle.

"Locked," he growled, then with the strength of a bear he gave a huge kick and the doors burst apart. They froze, hands on their swords.

Inside, Barthelemy was waiting. With a loaded pistol.

He sat behind his desk. The parchment and scrolls on the surface were impeccably arranged, the inkpot full with black liquid, the quill lying straight, parallel to the pistol. Other than the minister, the room was empty. Barthelemy sat rigidly, staring straight ahead. He had the frenzied yet calm look of a man who knew exactly what he had to do.

"Minister Barthelemy," began Treville with less than his usual booming authority. They all watched the pistol, silently calculating its distance from his hand. It was already cocked, ready to be fired. "You are under arrest by order of the King for conspiracy and treason. You are to come with us to the Chatelet where you will await trial."

He wasn't going to go the Chatelet. Athos could see it. He tightened his grip on his rapier as they advanced into the room slowly. But what could he do? Cut off the man's hand before he reached the pistol? Shoot him before he had a chance to shoot himself?

"I thought it wouldn't be long," the minister said softly. He had a high voice suited to obsequies and not much suited for anything else. He sounded hollow, like air escaped through his mouth and just happened to make words. "And then it came this morning. And I knew you would come."

"What came?"

But Athos had seen it; lying on the desk next to the pistol, clean, white paper and jet black ink scrolled artfully, almost lazily into the shape of a bird.

"Minister," he said, matching the man's soft tone. "Who is the Goldfinch?"

The man shook his head; he looked beyond them as if seeing a vision. "Not a man," he breathed. "Not a man. A monster."

Athos tried again. "Why did you work with him? You paid the Jesuits to kill the King—why?"

The minister let out a gasp of air that sounded like a sob. "He has my child—he _had _my child. What was I to do? And then—"

"What do you mean, _had_?"

He shook his head infinitesimally. "He took her in the night, and in the morning I received a letter instructing me to deliver a sum of money to the Jesuits with the intent that they kill the King. I wouldn't do it—I searched for my child. We found her in the streambed, drowned." Barthelemy swallowed dryly. "The next letter said my wife was next."

Suddenly, he turned to Athos. "Please—ensure that my wife is safe. Don't let him find her!"

Athos felt panic rising up his throat. He was very near the desk now. If he was quick, he could reach the pistol. "Minister, who is he—the Goldfinch?"

"I sent her away," he replied, his voice rasped and dream-like. "Somewhere he would never find her—"

"_Who is the Goldfinch_?"

The man was shaking his head. "I don't know. But he's an aristocrat—and the letters, they came from England." Barthelemy was shaking now. "It is better this way. He cannot get to the King now, as long as my wife is safe—"

Treville lurched forward. "Wait—"

"—That English monster!" His hand moved surprisingly fast and they all lunged toward him, reaching—

But the gun reported, loud as a thunderclap, and Barthelemy's body fell back from the desk, the pistol clattering from his lifeless hand to the ground.

Later, when the body had been removed and the place cleaned, Treville took them aside.

"The King wants answers. He has become…somewhat paranoid since the attempt on his life. And I have nothing to give to ease his worries."

"If he wants answers, then give him one," said Porthos. "The minister paid the assassin to kill the king, and he failed. And in disgrace…" He trailed off, leaving an ugly pause.

"We don't know that for certain," Treville muttered. "Was the money Barthelemy's or the Goldfinch's? And Barthelemy was being blackmailed—"

"We know the assassin dressed falsely as a Jesuit, and that his brother, the leader of the Jesuits, had no knowledge of it," D'Artagnan said. "We heard Barthelemy confess that he paid Lenoir."

"It doesn't seem right to besmirch the memory of a man who was serving his king and was coerced into treason," Aramis said. "The Goldfinch killed his daughter, threatened his wife! What was he to do?"

"He could have come to us," Athos said. Aramis rounded on him.

"You don't honestly blame—"

"Enough." Treville raised his hands in defeat. "I will tell the King of Barthelemy's treason and make delicate inquiries about the whereabouts of Madame Barthelemy. As for the Goldfinch…"

No one spoke. The trail had gone cold with Barthelemy's body. There was no way for the musketeers to pursue the identity of the Goldfinch, except to wait. But for Marguerite….

The musketeers left, partly relieved and partly disappointed. Athos was the last to turn away, and when the others were out of earshot, Treville called to him.

"I'm curious," he said in a voice that said he was a good deal more than curious. "What was the woman—the one who was shot—what was she doing with the Jesuits in the first place?"

Athos disliked the way Treville looked at him now, with eyes that tested him, assessed him. It reminded him of his father, in a way. The old Comte de le Fere had been immune to his sons' deceptions and had had a gaze that bore into young Olivier until he came out with the truth at last.

But he was Athos now, no longer Olivier, and he would not be intimidated.

"It's unclear," he replied. "I doubt she will speak to any of us ever again."

* * *

He was silent as Aramis spoke hurriedly to Porthos and D'Artagnan in a quiet corner of the garrison, detailing briefly the events of the previous night.

"We're sworn to silence, understand? No one can know of it beyond us, not even Treville," Aramis pressed. "The Queen's safety depends on it."

"The Queen's safety would be better served if she didn't wander from the palace at night on spy business," D'Artagnan said wryly.

"Keep your voice down," Porthos growled. He seemed to be taking the news rather well. That was how far Porthos' legendary loyalty extended—hardly anything surprised him, and if it did, it did nothing to alter his duty. Athos envied this simple outlook.

D'Artagnan, on the other hand, was shocked to know that Marguerite was the Queen's spymistress. "What is she thinking? A ring of spies of her very own, disguised as prostitutes? If word got out about this—"

"It won't," Aramis said vehemently, spearing D'Artagnan with a fierce look. "She's the Queen, a queen whose husband's chief advisor tried to kill her. She's protecting herself the only way she can, and we must help her."

_Mother of God, Aramis_. Athos could see the blatant love in his friend's face, a fierce passion as well as quiet affection, so different from the easy lust he spent on other women. Aramis did not know how to guard himself, shut off the world from his emotions like drawing the curtains over a window. As it was, Athos could see directly through the window of Aramis into his feelings, and Athos wished it unseen. Every time he witnessed Aramis' love for the Queen, he knew it would come to haunt them.

"And you," D'Artagnan said suddenly, looking to Athos, whom he could always count on to be as distrustful as he was. "Are you all right with this?"

Athos lifted his head and sent them a look that communicated quite clearly just how he felt about it all.

"Ah," said D'Artagnan. "So that's that."

"And remember—" Aramis started but Porthos cut him off.

"We won't tell anyone, Aramis, so save your breath." How was it that a man with such an intimidating physical presence could be so comforting? "How is Mademoiselle Defoe?"

"Alive," Aramis sighed. "And for that we can be thankful."

_Alive._

* * *

And it goes on.

Days, and then weeks passed in what felt like a new era to the Musketeers, and like all soldiers they drew comfort from the constant nature of things when everything seemed to be changing around them. Before, they had had little knowledge of the clandestine battle between rival political forces. Before, when they saw men dressed in black with watchful gazes, they thought little of it, dismissing them for the many suspicious characters in the city. Now they looked away and rode on, or returned the few polite nods the quiet Queen's Musketeers gave them. When they were in the vicinity of the Maiden's Heart and a young woman carrying laundry or groceries gave them a pointed look, they could no longer dismiss it as merely strange. This was the world now—they were surrounded by spies. They supposed it had always been so, but now they were aware of it.

It was the hardest for Aramis, who frequented the Maiden's Heart to continue Marguerite's treatment. He went without warning, disappearing to the tavern when time allowed and Athos could not watch him go. He didn't attempt to speak to Athos about her, though Athos could sense his friend's desire to say something.

Athos threw himself into his work. He took extra guard duties and returned late to the garrison, smelling of wine and sleeplessness. He spent extra hours in the yard training new recruits and testing his own skills. His eyes were watchful but growing more hollow as each night passed with only a few hours spent in a drunken state of dreamlessness. Aramis and Porthos knew to keep silent—this was not the first time their friend had been so troubled. But D'Artagnan was not so patient.

"You're ill," he shouted one day when Athos emerged from his quarters with a face as white as salt. "You don't sleep, you hardly eat. You do nothing but drink and work yourself nearly to death. And I am just to sit by and watch?"

The boy meant well, but Athos retreated further, for guilt was a strong force in his life. He took meals regularly, drank less, and went to bed pointedly at the appropriate time. But the hollow pit in his only seemed to grow. It lessened only once that Aramis saw, when he spoke quietly to Athos in the yard.

"I took her arm from the sling today," he said both gently and carelessly. "She's healed better than anyone I've ever treated. It's remarkable."

And something in Athos was both eased and aggravated. He mourned many things from his old life—the simplicity, the comfort, the peace of mind—but he had not missed the pain of a heart with love in it.

* * *

And it goes on.

Things changed again, and it could not be said if the change was welcome. Celebrations broke out in the palace and in the city, but it brought only dread to Athos' heart.

For when the King called his court to assembly and announced it, with the excitement of a child, that his Queen was with child and a royal heir would arrive in six months' time, Athos and Aramis shared a look of mutual fear. _Mother of God, _Athos prayed as the court applauded and the Queen, their strong noble Queen, blushed like a virgin girl and refused to look at them. _What are we to do now?_

There was nothing to be done. Not about the bastard baby growing in the Queen's belly, not about the deadened look in Aramis' eyes as the Queen called him to meet with her in the presence of her ladies. And then there was the panic.

Later, Aramis pulled Athos aside, and then the panic he had so carefully repressed bloomed on his handsome face.

"He knows," he breathed, frantic. "_God_. He knows, Athos!"

"Who?"

"The Cardinal. I can feel, the way he looked at me, at_ her_. Oh, God!" he groaned, covering his face with trembling hands.

And there was nothing to be done. Athos could fathom no plot to somehow undo all of this, and so he did what he did best: he pretended to forget, and urged Aramis to do the same.

"The Cardinal knows nothing," said Athos. "Only three people know of what happened at the convent, and none of us have breathed a word of it. He can at best only suspect."

"But if he suspects, then he can discover the truth. The man has spies everywhere!"

_So does the Queen,_ Athos thought dryly, and was grateful for the thought for the first time.

"And if one of the nuns saw something, heart something—" Aramis looked like he was going to be sick.

"Then they wouldn't speak of it to outsiders. Aramis. They ware holy women, and loyal to the Queen. You must stop this. He knows nothing."

But the Cardinal did know something. Athos saw his dark, shifting eyes, still not recovered fro the blow they dealt him when they proved his treachery to the Queen. Even if he had no evidence, surely the Cardinal's criminal heart was searching for retribution.

Best then that Aramis appeared blameless and gave the man nothing.

But it was in Aramis to feel deeply, no matter whatever outward stoicism he managed, and later that evening he was so morose that Porthos resolved to take him drinking.

"No," he said. "I must—check on Mademoiselle Defoe."

"Then we'll go to the Maiden's Heart and you can manage both."

When D'Artagnan came to fetch Athos to join them, Athos teased the young Musketeer that he didn't seem mind doing the fetching these days.

"It's better than standing still," was all the Gascon said. "Are you with us?"

"No," Athos said, too quickly, too resolutely. "Not tonight."

D'Artagnan shifted where he stood, his face contorting the way it did before he worked out how to say something.

"Is this about Marguerite Defoe?" he said at last. "Because you have been strange since that night, and with no offense intended, I've never seen you turn down a drink. Either she disturbs you, or you are dying." Or both.

"D'Artagnan—" Athos began, and stopped. He couldn't say the words aloud. The past had molded him into a private creature, and couldn't outthink the consequences of admitting it. _Yes, she disturbs me, and I _want _to be disturbed_.

D'Artagnan shifted where he stood, looking ponderous. He turned as if to leave and said, "I know all of—this makes you think of Milady."

This young man and Athos had an odd bond of sorts, an understanding. They both knew Milady and had emerged from out of her charms not quite whole. D'Artagnan had even loved her, in his own way, and Lord knew Athos had been ravaged by his love for her. It helped, to have someone else who had not always viewed her as a villainess.

D'Artagnan continued. "I told you once that she and Marguerite were different somehow, though at the time I wasn't sure how. I know why now. Milady—I don't know where she came from or what her life was like before she met you. But she deceived everyone in order to better herself, rise above her station. She did it to conceal her past and become Anne de Breuil or Milady de Winter. But Marguerite—she lies to protect the Queen, and how many times have we done the same? She would have the world think her a whore, rather than let the truth be known and put the Queen in danger. She could change how she's seen, but she won't." As he left, he said, "She's not your wife, Athos."

* * *

Aramis had know Athos for nearly six years, from when his friend first arrived at the garrison, a melancholic drunk who was so deadly with a sword he won a commission with ease—not too different from the Athos of the present, who was less melancholic and slightly less drunk, but infinitely more deadly.

He had witness Athos' mysterious sorrow, which drove him to drink each night. Aramis could recall dark days early in their friendship when Athos weaned himself from the alcohol and dove fiercely into his work to compensate. He had tried to help his friend. He loved his friend. But he had not understood his friend.

Until now.

Aramis drank and drank more, emptying cup after cup of wine or brandy or mead—whatever he could get his hands on. At first he grew boisterous and jolly, jesting with Porthos and D'Artagnan, praising the fiddler who scratched out reels on his old instrument in the corner. The tavern took on a brightness, and he grinned at the girl who brought him more wine. Solenne. He smiled blearily at her face, downturned with concern, and drank on.

But it was not enough. He drank more, and the melancholy came, followed by irritation and self-loathing. Another patron tripped up Solenne on her way to the kitchen, and Aramis set on him, snarling, suddenly finding himself facing the business end of a dagger. He might have died there were it not for Porthos. He might have died, and he didn't care.

And it was still not enough. Now he was swimming sickly in nausea, the wine curdling his stomach, the stench of his own sour sweat gagging him. He could feel the tears behind his eyes, eager for release, but he kept them leashed. He could not let his friends see, for they would ask questions, questions he might want to answer with the truth. He could not make out Porthos' face clearly, but he could feel his friend's confusion and worry rolling off him in waves. It made him even sicker.

It would never be enough. Is that what sent Athos home from the taverns at night, the gross realization that no matter how much he drank, it would never erase completely the past, the ache, the longing, to hold her as she slept and as she woke, to make love to her softly with her growing belly between them, to be called the father of her child, to have her, to have her, Anne, Anne, _Anne_…

He was carried home between Porthos and D'Artagnan. He knew because he heard the soft murmur of their voices passing through him as he stumbled along—D'Artagnan's voice lighter and sharper than the deep, warm of Porthos'. And then it was just Porthos, his voice still rumbling as he spoke to Aramis absently, like one would to a child.

"…just in here, not far. There you go. Sit down—easy, now. Can you move without keeling over? No? Right, hold still…"

Porthos' rough hands tugging off his jerking, his boots. Pulling his shirt over his head, remarkably gentle. When the hands came back to push him softly down to the cot, Aramis gripped them.

"Porthos…" His voice was slurred and slightly desperate. "If I—If I did something terrible, unforgivable—would you still be my friend?"

Porthos' large dark face, his voice soft but demanding. "What did you do?"

But Aramis only shook his head, and the motion made him retch and Porthos steadied him as he vomited over the side of his cot. When he spoke he was gasping and the tears leaked from his eyes.

"You—you would hate me, you'd damn me, you'd leave me—Oh God." He retched again, but the absence of dinner left him heaving up nothing.

"I would never leave you," came the gentle giant's voice, and a hand stroked his hair. Aramis stiffened at the touch and then fell into it. He couldn't see—just drifting shadows and Porthos' voice, full of something Aramis had never heard but had somehow always been there. "You could never do anything to make me leave you."

"But I have," Aramis choked. "And you will."

"Quiet, now. Sleep."

Aramis was crying, which he would not usually bring him shame. Tears were evidence of passion and God knew he had enough of that. But these tears stung him as they drifted down, and he was moaning as he lay down, moaning even as he fell into a chaotic sleep.

"What have I done? Oh God, _what have I done?"_

* * *

The music of coins was tinny in the silence of the empty tavern. Marguerite sat at a table that was usually occupied by patrons, but it was well past midnight and she used the solitude to conclude some business. She stacked the silver livres in towers of five, the Spanish pesetas in groups of four. She totaled the groups and used the numbers as keys for the ciphers coding the messages that lay before her.

She decoded the messages quickly, for her mind was built for such puzzles as ciphers. Normally one of the girls would be doing this, but with her arm nearly mended Marguerite had a longing to do something with it, to reinforce its usefulness. When the messages were decoded, she placed them squarely in the fire burning low and hot in the hearth and watched the embers reduce the parchment to ash in a matter of seconds. Then she turned back to a blank sheet of parchment and began to write.

It took a great deal of concentration to manage a cipher convincingly, especially such a cipher as this, for the code in this was as much about what she gave away as what she concealed. The letter she penned was intended to be coded simply, almost too simply, as if by an amateur too pleased with their success to be intricate with the code. The cipher's key was based on the address of the recipient. Anyone trying to break the code would surely succeed without much difficulty, and once they did they would find a letter written by a frivolous young woman, detailing the recent scandals in her town. This letter would read thusly:

_Dearest friend,_

_Never in all my life have I been so utterly exhausted! Even my mother, whom you know is thrifty with praise, agrees your soir__é__e was the most exquisite form of entertainment in which we have yet to participate. What a night it was! Thierry, my darling fianc__é__, was quite overcome, poor dear. He does not tolerate exertion well, not since his childhood. Really, though, I have a suspicion that the reason behind his exhaustion has little to do with the wonderful wine you provided and more to do with the presence of the Comtesse de Feuillide. Edith, I have come to suspect an infidelity of him with regard to that woman. Any woman may have similar thoughts of their intended, but I had hoped to be free of such worries. Tomorrow I intend to confront him as meekly as I can to understand the extent of his feelings, if it is merely passing or if it will have bearing on our union._

_Regretfully, I am also writing to tell you that I will be unable to visit you this Wednesday as I previously promised. Edith, it is a shame, as I do so enjoy your company, I am quite put out—you must forgive me. And the reason for this hasty cancellation is quite queer! Since I know you love odd little stories, I shall share it with you. Sophie and I were taking our daily walk along the river yesterday, when the strangest thing happened…_

The letter was so guileless and dull and utterly _long _that anyone would throw it out immediately, even after toiling to break the simplistic cipher. (Especially with such a post-script: "Do you like my little cipher? I do know how you like to work your little brain puzzles.") This is what she intended as she told an unreal woman's fictional story to a false woman who would never read it. Even her own agents might think it a trick were it not for the small parcel that would accompany it, containing a single English pound sterling.

The secondary code was not difficult to discover, but hidden as it was in the ramblings of the supposed author, it was rather well hidden. The coin was a clue—the first letter of every sentence. Once arranged and broken into words, the true message would read: NEW THREAT / REASSIGNMENT / DISREGARD CURRENT OPERATIONS / LOOK TO ENGLAND.

And so a pound sterling for good measure. She sealed the letter and addressed it with flourish, and sealed it. Behind her, the floorboards creaked, signaling the approach of Solenne.

For it could only be Solenne checking on her.

"Marguerite! You should be in bed," the young woman chided, padding over to her in bare feet and her dressing gown.

Marguerite smiled, for a woman as young as Solenne did not understand insomnia. "I am quite well, Solenne. I was having trouble sleeping. Here, will you see this delivered tomorrow? Have Marius take it the usual way." Marguerite handed Solenne the letter containing her coded message.

"How is your arm? Still hurting?"

It did still hurt, but no more than her tired eyes or cold feet. It had been reduced over the last weeks from a stabbing, fiery pain to the dull constant ache that twinged in her shoulder now.

"It's nothing, it's fine," she said absently.

"Why can't you sleep, ma chère?" Solenne said, smoothing a hand down Marguerite's river of hair. Marguerite said nothing, knowing Solenne, who was as dear in her heart as a little sister, thought she was in pain, or having nightmares, or troubled. But the truth was that Margot liked the night; she preferred it to the day. At night, all the unimportant things faded into a blue so deep it felt like living on the bottom of the ocean. At night, the fires and candles burned more brilliantly and their warmth was more welcome. At night the world grew quiet, and there was something both powerful and intensely lonely about witnessing the world when everyone else was asleep.

"I'm sure I will be able to soon," she said. "You should return to bed, Solenne. You should get some rest, if not for yourself, then for the child."

Solenne smiled and placed a hand on her belly in a telling way. She was only three months into the pregnancy, but a small swell in her abdomen was already visible.

"Sometimes I forget," she whispered with an strong fondness that made Marguerite ache. The young woman padded away, still caressing her belly almost dreamily. Marguerite took the key to cipher she had written and tore it methodically into small pieces, then placed them in the fire. She watched them to make sure every piece was devoured. And then she was staring at the flames, finding shapes in the writhing heat like she did when she was a child. She let herself be consumed by the flame, hypnotized by its graceful, feral movement, and indulged for a moment in the idea of a baby of her own.

When the knock came, quiet and short, Marguerite looked away from the fire and put the thought away purposefully. That was how she handled things that were inherently painful, with purpose. Before she went to the door, she took a pistol from the armoire in the sitting room, making sure the flintlock was clear and the pistol loaded. Then she moved quietly to the door and opened it a crack, peering through to the person on the other side.

A pause.

She put down the pistol and opened the door. She returned the weapon to its place in the cupboard. She heard the door close softly. She turned around.

"I looked for you," she said to Athos.

His eyes were as mesmerizing as the dancing embers in the hearth, and they bore into her with quiet intensity. He said nothing, but took a step forward, then another, growing golden and sharp as he entered the firelight.

"I waited. Aramis came, and I healed. Your other friends came, but not you." She reciprocated his steps with backward ones of her own, drawing him further into the room. "I kept waiting. Even for that damned cat." She felt the table at the center of the room pressing into her, and she gripped its edge with her hands. He took another step. Marguerite liked silence, and here she was filling it up with senseless words. But they felt right to say.

Athos said nothing, eating up her voice hungrily, and so she spoke again. "You've kept away. Why?"

"Because…" His voice was always so surprising; there was something feral about him, something wild that made the soft deep timbre of his voice seem remarkably soft—one expected a roar from a lion, not a purr. And yet he purred, and she shuddered at the sound of it. "Because I was afraid."

"Of what?" He was so close now; if he reached out his hand would brush her face. The thought was terrifying, and she wished he would do it.

"Of looking at you once more." He made no move to touch her, but his eyes—oh, God, his eyes—were far more intimate than any touch.

"Am I so terrible to look at?" She breathed this, aware of how their voices were growing quieter as they drew closer and closer. She could feel his heat now, radiating from him as blazing as the heat from the fire. There was an odd shifting of the space between them, now mere inches, as they both made to touch and then fell back. His face was tilted down to her, his breath grazing her cheek.

"You," he said, his eyes fluttering all around her face to her lips, her neck, and back to her eyes. "You are devastating."

The pull between her lips and his was so strong, as if cosmic forces were driving them together. She was breathing hard, and the movement of his chest mirrored hers. The space between their mouths seemed such a small but insurmountable distance, and he didn't kiss her. Instead, his hand reached for hers, careful and quivering, and their fingers danced together, winding and testing each other's strength. Their voices were barely audible.

"I confess…I have not done this in a very long time."

"Nor I."

And when the temptation could no longer be resisted, he closed the gap between them and kissed her.

He meant to be gentle, but her hand gripped his suddenly urgently and he parted her lips with his tongue, and then they were breathing into each other and the kiss became something untamed. He could feel every one of her gasps as if they were his own, and when he shuddered under her mouth, she responded in kind. His lips wandered down her lovely long throat, biting at her collarbone until her free hand clutched at his hair. Tenderly, he drew down the linen of her blouse to reveal that scar that almost killed her, still brightly red and beating as if it had its own heart, and traced its warm ridges with his tongue. She moaned aloud and he stilled suddenly, like an animal pricking its ears. He rose to look her in the eyes, her soft and saddened hazel eyes, only to find them wide and blazing and hungry. He imagined his looked the same. The terror, as delicious as it had been a moment ago, was gone. What replaced it was infinitely more dangerous and irresistible.

She looked down at her hand, fingers tangled with his, and said, "I will not be silent."

He moved his thumb to brush against her wrist. "Be anything, but do not be silent."With their fingers still entwined, she led him to bed.

* * *

**END OF PART ONE**


	11. Part 2: Chapter 1

Spring

Part Two: The Queen's Ring

Chapter One

_Five months before_

They conducted their affair not so much in secret, but in private, as they did most things. Marguerite was a great believer in the idea that excluding information was not the same thing as lying, so if she had been asked directly, perhaps by Solenne or Aramis, even, if the Musketeer Athos was sharing her bed, she would have answered honestly—_yes_. But she was not asked, and so she did not say. As for Athos, he did not intend to keep a secret from his brothers-in-arms who were so important in his life, but it felt like the relief of a great weight he hadn't known he was carrying, to have something separate from the garrison and the Musketeers. It was like existing in a world apart, those softly-lit nights in Margot's room.

In the cold purple of the morning after their made love, Athos woke in a peculiar mixture of calm satiation and hot shame. Five years since his disastrous parting from his wife, and in that time the only women he'd had were demure whores occasionally thrust on him by Aramis, who worried for the health of Athos' manhood. And even in those instances he would not have called the result pleasure or release or whatever he felt now; even then his lack of control had plagued him. He had thought himself utterly grown apart from such passion. He had thought of it as something that could only be possessed by someone whole and innocent—and yet, here he lay in Marguerite's bed, the soft movements of her breathing lulling him like the gentle breaking of ocean waves.

His shame grew brighter and hotter, and kept away the frigid morning air as he crept—like a libertine, he thought in disgust—from the bed and dressed himself. He wished, later, that he had stopped to view Marguerite in sleep, in a vulnerable state—for he had seen her proud and strong, seen her disguised as a whore, then wounded and in pain, but never vulnerable. And even after a night of exquisite passion, he still had not.

His shame plagued him that day, as did the bemusing hunger that drove him to train, running drills and pushing his fellow Musketeers hard, until in the heat and sweat his confusion seemed less pressing. He attended his duty shifts and steeled his eyes into quiet watchfulness and remained vigilant, never allowing his control to slip into distraction. He ate meals with his friends, and if they noticed anything amiss with him (or at least anything amiss that hadn't always been amiss) they said nothing of it. But Athos knew that later that night, he would find himself at the door of Marguerite's house. And when, well after sunset, he knocked on her door, the hunger burned bright in him, and the shame had dimmed to ashes, and he was almost calm.

But this time, she did not speak first; she let him in as she had the night before, greeting him with half her face and all of a pistol before moving aside to stow the weapon. Then she sat at the table before the fire, where there was parchment and ink and a quill, and began to write.

Athos took a step toward her. "I have come to apologize."

She wrote smoothly, the movements of her hands precise, the quill perched easily between her fingers.

"Whatever for?" she said, still focused on her writing. She had not looked at him once, he realized, not even when she opened the door to him, not even while threatening him with a pistol.

He did not know whether to be angry or concerned.

"For my behavior," he replied.

"Surely you do not apologize for all your behavior last night," she said easily. "For that is why you're here. Is it not?" At last, she fixed him with her unreadable hazel eyes.

He took another step. "I do not regret what happened last night and nor will I offer any apology for it. I think we have both understood it for what it was. I mean to apologize for this morning, for fleeing before you woke. It was cowardly."

"And I suppose you think coming here is brave."

He could not fathom if she was being coy or heartlessly dismissive. But then he saw the quill in her hand twitch as she pressed it so hard into the parchment that the nib bent and black ink bloomed across the surface, a growing tumor. There was nothing coy about her at this moment. As for being heartless—it was too late for that; he had already seen her heart.

"Marguerite…" he began.

"You need not concern yourself with apologies," she interjected, watching the growing spot of ink. "The nature of our encounter must have escaped you, having never had a lover yourself."

He took another step toward her. "Nor have you."

She shrugged. "It is an easy enough arrangement to comprehend. We fucked, Athos. Nothing more."

"If you are trying to shock me with your vulgarity, I'll have you know that I have seen you disguised as a prostitute. You cannot surprise me anymore." He knew it was a ridiculous lie even as he said it. It was her very purpose, it seemed—she existed to surprise him, and she would likely pull the rug from under his feet many times more.

But she did not acknowledge this. Instead she stood and moved to the fire, her back facing him. The light haloed around her body warmly, leaving the rest of her in darkness. "I suppose what I am trying to insinuate is that once was enough for me. And I would rather not see you again."

She said it coolly, dismissively. A self-assured woman who had taken her pleasure and was now keen to move on. This was not the same woman he had made love to the previous night, the woman he was certain was the closest to the true Marguerite he had ever seen. The woman who had led him to her bed and bared her lovely throat to his teeth—he wondered if he brushed her hair away from her neck if he could still see the marks—who had bloomed under his hands and infected him with life, whose exquisite sounds had taken him to the height of pleasure. _Again,_ she had gasped. _Again._

_Again_, he had agreed.

"Why?" he asked now, facing her back, black against the glow of the fire around her.

She said nothing.

He moved to her side, suddenly impatient and tired of women's games, and turned her to face him—perhaps too urgently, for she flinched, then absorbed the movement as if to disguise it. But her eyes were fixed on his, pale and soft.

"Why?" he demanded again. And again, she said nothing, merely stared at him with those hooded eyes, her hazel locked with his blue, matching him blink for blink. She had undone him with a look.

"Do you find it easier to lie while looking at me, or looking away?" Athos asked softly, and she pulled back as if resenting his softness, but he matched her movement and held her arms like steadying pillars. "I know you—I do not know everything about you, and I do not know you deeply, but I _know _you, and I know that on your tongue right now is—something devastating. Something you could say to me that that would be so hurtful it would drive me away and leave you to yourself. And you have not yet said it."

Athos willed his fingers to be gentle on the flesh of her shoulders—his thumb was inches from the place where he knew a bright red scar spattered her skin like a skewed star; last night his tongue had found it and ravished it with as much gentleness as he could muster.

He was quick to violence, he knew—drawing his sword when he should stay his hand, raising his voice to bellow in rage when he should remain silent. He was often too silent, going days without uttering more than a grunt, communicating ineffectively with his eyes because his voice was heavy with years of sorrow and he sometimes loathed the sound of it. He slept poorly more nights, nightmares driving him to foul moods or detached melancholy. He drank too much, trying to lose himself, enlivened at the thought of souring his insides to match his sour heart. Athos knew what a pathetic thing he was, and he knew why Marguerite might hesitate at the thought of taking him as a lover—and yet, despite what he knew, he still found himself trying to convince her to take him.

"Say it, and be rid of me, and the uncertainty of me. I know the burden of a liaison with someone like me—I know that I would be but another weight upon your mind. I am not one to be taken lightly. So, say it, and I will leave you in peace, and there will be no pursuing this. Or—" He paused, breathed. "Or, I can stay."

If Marguerite were another woman, she would relax in his arms, perhaps weep, apologize, and embrace him. But she was herself, and she did none of those things. The only indication that she had softened toward him was the slight drawing together of her brows, which transformed her face from stubbornly indifferent to utterly sad. Her face seemed suited to expressing sadness. He had the urge to kiss the small beauty mark that clung like a dark tear to the kin under the lower lashes of her right eye.

"I am broken, Athos," she said, as neatly as if saying _I am human_, with such succinctness it hurt to hear. "I have been broken for so long, I don't know how not to be."

Athos lowered his eyes from her penetrating gaze. He was wrong. Her hesitation didn't lie with his shortcomings, but with her own. She hadn't been attempting to drive him away because she feared what influence he might have on her, but because she feared what influence she might have on him. She humbled him, and shamed him.

"May I give you something?" he asked. When she didn't respond, he drew it out of his jerkin. Why had he brought it with him? It was seldom that he wore it around his neck now, though in the last five years there was hardly a day he went without it. He cupped her small smooth hand with his large rough one and lowered the golden locket into her palm, the chain curling like the coil of a snake over her skin. Her fingers slid over the gold, and Athos grimaced as he was reminded of another woman's fingers doing the same motion. Marguerite carefully pinched open the locket and touched the mother-of-pearl flowers inside.

"Forget-me-nots," she said quietly, almost with a tone of reverence. "This was hers?" And how delicate her voice had become, how carefully she handled his past. How kind she was with his pain.

He nodded. "I threw it away once, thinking I was done remembering. I meant to cast off her hold on me, and that at least is gone, I think. I thought I could throw away the memories, but they became stronger and clearer, not less so. So I returned to find it, and now I keep it with me to remind me of my limits."

It was his way—his stifled, subdued way of telling her _I too am broken. I too have yet to be whole_. Because he could not say the words. "She betrayed me," he said now, suddenly aware of how much he spoke around Marguerite, as if to soothe her silences. "And I hurt her in return. Ours is—was a history of violence. And once she was gone, I realized that she has been haunting my life for so long, that it feels wrong to want something like this." He no longer knew if anything he said made sense. "But I want it nonetheless."

Her eyes were bright under the furrowed shelf of her sharp brows.

"You don't want this," she said—as if willing it to be the truth. But she kept the necklace cradled in her palm, the blue mother-of-pearl winking up at them. He curled her fingers over it.

"What do you want me to do with it?" she asked, but he shook his head.

"It's yours now. You may do what you will with it." _You may do what you will with me_.

She kept it gripped in her hand for a time, even after words had faded to a silence populated by breath and the softest of sounds. And finally she peeled back her fingers to let it fall to the floorboards, where it lay coiled under their discarded clothes, forgotten.

Later, after sleep had come briefly and they had both been roused by the newness of each other's presence, she said, "If we are to do this, I have . . . conditions."

He shifted to face the serious tone of her voice, his nakedness suddenly new and sensitive to the air around them. She sat next to him on the bed in the half-light. He could see the gleaming white of her shoulders, the fall of her hair over her breasts, but her face was in shadow.

"Conditions," he repeated. "You make it sound like this is a business transaction." Which it curiously was not—but what exactly it _was_, Athos wasn't sure.

She apologized. "It's habit, I suppose. Sometimes the illusion of running a whorehouse can be very convincing, even to me."

"You are no madam," he said with conviction. "I imagine that if any man advanced on the girls you house, you would set your black hounds on them."

"Black hounds." He could hear her smiling, and he wondered if she smiled wider in the dark, when no one could see her. "I like that."  
He said, "Tell me your conditions, and I will keep them."

She was quiet for a moment, but he had learned that her silence was not naïve hesitation or uncertainty, but a pause of calculated thought.

"If you are going to sleep with me, then after any passion you will sleep." She offered no explanation for this demand; he didn't know if she was concerned for his health, if she thought poorly of his rigid sleeping quarters at the garrison, or if she was merely lonely and wanted him near. She wasn't the kind of woman who offered explanations, he knew that now. The thought of sleeping in this bed draped in soft linen with her warm body against him was so much more enticing and terrifying than the cold hardness of his cot at the garrison. And it was so different from the sensuous silks of his marriage bed… Athos pushed the thought aside—he was through with comparisons.

"If—if you don't wish to—" she said haltingly, and this time he did detect a seed of uncertainty. Her fingers were very near his, fidgeting with the bedclothes huddled around her bare knee. He brushed his rough skin over her knuckles as if by accident. She turned her hand palm up and he stroked that, too.

"What is the next condition?" he asked, when he felt her uncertainty subside.

He watched her shoulders rise as she took in a silent breath and held it, letting it out slowly.

"I have scars," she said, just as she had hours before said _I am broken_. "A lot of scars. Don't—ask me about them." Then, as an afterthought: "Please."

He had felt them, the scars. Of course he had, and she knew it. His fingers had detected the raised ribbons of newer flesh, softer than and separate from the warm wholeness of her skin. His lips had kissed them, though he had not seen them. The feel of them was familiar to Athos, as he was a soldier who had been riddled by blades and bullets—buts such scars had no place on the body of someone like Marguerite, whose weapons were not knives or pistols, but her mind and her cunning. The soldier in him, the part of him that allowed himself to be harmed to keep others from it, wanted to know how those scars came to be on her skin and who had put them there.

But the soldier was not sprawled naked in Marguerite's bed; Athos was.

"I'll do nothing," he said now, "that you do not want me to do." The corner of his mouth quirked up. "I'll not speak without your permission, if that's what you wish."

She shoved his hand away, but he could hear her smiling round her words.

"I don't wish it, and I don't think that's what you had in mind when you came here," she said.

"No," he replied. "You're right. But I would, if it's what you required."

Her eyes glinted in the half-light. "I told you I am broken. That doesn't mean I'm fragile. I won't command you like your captain or emasculate you like some meddlesome wife. I'll only warn you of what I cannot tolerate. Which brings me to my final condition." She shifted so her eyes burned more intensely and she was no longer touching him. "You will never raise a hand to me in violence, or take me in the same manner."

He said nothing for a moment. Then: "You think I would do this?"

He had once sentenced his wife to hang, once threatened to kill her, and he was nearly always drunk. He was a vile mess of vices—but rape was something he had never done and never would do.

She was shifting away from him, closing herself off, using the space between them as a wall. "It's not what I think. It's what I must say. I won't be hurt. Will you promise, or—"

"I have already sworn to keep any and all of your conditions, and I will," he said. "If one of them had been that you banish me to the foot of your bed after you had taken your pleasure, I would honor it." His mouth had hardened into a stiff line. "But I would know what men in your life you have known that you feel you must make such conditions."

She was far away form him now, unreachable, closed off despite of her nakedness.

"They were men," she replied. "If I think too harshly of your sex, then you give them too much credit. Not all men—indeed, few men have your particular brand of honor." She met his eyes across the sea of sheets. "I won't apologize if you pride is offended. I have suffered too much to be lax about my safety."

Athos sighed. "I don't give a damn about my pride."

"Neither do I," she snapped. "Are you rethinking this arrangement yet?"

"Are you making this difficult on purpose?" he shot back, though he suspected she was. "Because if you are, I won't be intimidated. And I won't stay out of spite. I will stay because I wish to, because you infuriate me and calm me at the same time. Because you let yourself be shot in my place—"

"Don't let that keep you," she said dryly.

"You know what I meant, damn you."

She was exhausting, in more ways than one. But she was smiling at him, a small half-smile that caught the light from the moonbeam spearing them through the curtains. She had her knees drawn to her chest, her hair falling down her back and around her arms like a mantel. Her walls were still up, her posture somewhat uncomfortable, but she was smiling.

"I know what you meant," she said quietly—almost, he thought, fondly. "I just want you to know what you're getting into."

"I'm getting an inkling," he replied dryly. "You aren't going to drive me away, despite all your excellent efforts tonight. And I am not going to hurt you."

The look she cut him was almost pitying. "You can't promise that."

"No," he admitted. He had promised his wife in their wedding vows he would love her and cherish her and protect her, and certainly not harm her—and instead he had done nothing but harm her. But he was no longer Olivier de la Fere, and the ghost of Anne de Breuil was still teaching him. "But I can try."

And so they did. They tried to be generous with their affections, these two who had grown accustomed to keeping their hearts behind stone walls. They tried taking them down brick by brick. They knew to be gentle in the deconstruction of all they had known. Athos sometimes woke at night disoriented and unaware of his surroundings—five years sleeping on a cot in the garrison had predisposed him against any comfort, but Margot was quick even in the haze of sleep to place her hand on his chest, as if by touch she communicated with the restless part of him and convinced it to return to sleep also.


	12. Part 2: Chapter 2

**Bless you all for your patience. Here's another chapter for you to chew on. Frankly, I'm surprised I even managed this much with school going on. Originally, I had planned to keep writing in this chapter, but I thought you all deserved an update, and would you look at that! A cliffhanger! *Mwahaha.***

**This chapter isn't as exciting as I hoped, but we're getting there, guys. Trying to build tension and whatnot-and can I just apologize for no Constance? I've been trying really hard to find a way to fit her into this story, but it's not working (and honestly, D'Art is not-so-subtly my least favorite musketeer, so that doesn't help). If you have any ideas, do shoot them my way. I hate to not do Constance justice.**

**Enjoy!**

**-Laz, whose Greek is abominable and who is not fooling anyone. ;)**

* * *

Chapter Two

_Five months after_

"Draw your sword!"

Athos sighed. He was too tired for this. It had been a week—Mother of God, a _week_—since they began this mission. A week they had tracked this miserable pack of thieves and criminals who had managed to escape from prison out of sheer dumb luck; and now, all of them had been caught but one—the one brandishing a too-large rapier at Athos—who didn't even now have the sense to give in. He had backbone, Athos had to give him that.

He looked to where Porthos sat on at least three of the criminals in the dirt, all groaning under the Musketeer's weight, sporting bloodied noses and innumerable broken bones. Porthos himself had a small cut on his forehead that bled freely, but he seemed satisfied as he took a swig from a small flask of wine.

"Don't look to me," he barked, half-exhausted, half-mischievous. "I'm busy."

"Draw your sword, Musketeer!" the criminal called again. Desperation shook his limbs, wobbling his stolen sword to the tip. He was filthy, a combination of dirt, blood, and lingering prison grime coating his skin and tattered clothing. Athos looked hardly better, but with less blood and a little less dirt—as for grime, well. A week of sleepless nights in pursuit of these imbeciles had accumulated some color on his skin.

"What's the matter, Athos?" called D'Artagnan from behind him. He and Aramis were dealing with their own convicts, effectively hogtying the less cooperative ones. Athos's irritability spiked, a sudden irritation overcoming him. Six remarkably lucky escaped convicts had led them on a merry hunt for days, not because they were particularly clever or dangerous, but because there were so many of them, all of them stupid enough to remain together instead of splitting up. Though there was some validity in their plan—it was going to be a hell of a time wrangling six criminals back to Paris.

"Are you getting sleepy?" D'Artagnan jeered. Athos shot him a dark look. They were all dog-tired and D'Artagnan knew it. It was this exhaustion that kept Athos from springing to action in a trice as he would normally.

"Fight me, Musketeer," said the man too foolish to flee—Athos might even let him go. "Or are you afraid you would not win in a fair duel?"

Porthos choked on his wine. His coughing laugh was so violent that the men trapped beneath him groaned. Behind Athos, he heard Aramis's disbelieving voice say, "Did he just—"

"Yes," said D'Artagnan in satisfaction. "Yes, he did."

Athos drew his sword.

* * *

After the long trek back to Paris with six bound and gagged criminals in tow; after their dog-tiredness had grown into utter bone-weariness, as they sat rigidly, silently in their saddles for hours; after they gratefully delivered the runaways to the guards at the Chatelet, they hardly gave a thought to the prisoners, who would likely never again see the light of day. The best of them would be locked in the very depths of the prison until they died; the worst would meet their deaths early by firing squad. And after all that, the Musketeers went home.

The garrison was blessedly quiet when they arrived and handed their horses off to the stable boys. The courtyard echoed faintly with the sounds of trainees sparring back in the training yard. Spring was a busy time for Paris. The lethargy of winter thawed with the snow and restlessness set in. Treville, led by his formidable sixth sense, wanted to bulk up the ranks of the Musketeers, as the Cardinal's Red Guard was recruiting fiercely, and for the sake of peace there must always be balance between the two forces. Usually Treville would be at Athos and the other senior Musketeers to train the recruits, to uphold their level of excellence, but when they arrived at the garrison, the Captain took one look at the lot of them and waved them off dismissively. He knew they would be of no use to him until they had had rest.

"I have never been so happy to see this mud-soaked place," D'Artagnan sighed as they slumped into seats with a flagon of wine.

"Not true for me," Porthos replied. "I'm always glad to return to the garrison. The world makes sense here."

"It's just as mad here as it is everywhere else." This came from Aramis as he downed a cup of wine and then refilled it. "We just don't think about it here."

It wasn't as if they were the most optimistic of men—they lived in the real world without many comforts or delusions—but it was that Aramis had never been the most pessimistic in their group. Porthos and Athos were wise enough to send sidelong looks to each other at Aramis's comment and leave it at that. D'Artagnan was not.

"What a bright and cheerful observation, Aramis," the young man said dryly—_Good Lord_, thought Athos, _we're rubbing off on him_. "Honestly, I can't get my head around it—you've been so petulant these last months. It's as if you and Athos swapped dispositions."

Athos shot D'Artagnan the most petulant look he could muster. He met Aramis's gaze only to find the other man avoiding it. Suddenly Athos was struck by the change that had touched their small group in the last five months. Some changes Athos wasn't certain he liked, and others could not be more thankful for.

"I resent the comparison," Aramis said with a remnant of his usual flair. "Athos could never be as charming as I. And as for being petulant—not all of us have a Madame Bonacieux to lift their spirits."

D'Artagnan flushed slightly, and Porthos chuckled. In the last five months, D'Artagnan had come into his own as a soldier and a man. His fellow Musketeers no longer saw him as a farm boy in livery, but a fine Musketeer and a true friend. In his free hours, D'Artagnan went drinking with Porthos or ran drills with Athos—but most often he did those things only after returning from the part of Paris suspiciously near Madame Bonacieux's house. For despite the ultimatum Constance had given the young Musketeer after his commission, the two could not keep away from each other—and it came as a surprise to no one.

As far as Athos could tell, D'Artagnan was not bedding the married woman; instead he was content to complete menial tasks for Constance, chopping wood, repairing loose tiles on the roof. Athos dreaded the day when Monsieur Bonacieux challenged D'Artagnan to a duel for his honor; then D'Artagnan would have to shoot the cloth merchant and widow his lover.

"I don't know what you're talking about," D'Artagnan said now, though he was grinning. That manic look was on him often these days. _Little shit_, Porthos called him when he got that look.

Still chuckling, Porthos slapped D'Artagnan on the back. "Honestly, it's none of our business," he said fairly, then added in an undertone, "you lucky little shit."

Porthos was their constant. He changed subtly, gradually, like the changing of seasons or the growing of trees—always the solid, good soldier, the funny and stalwart friend. Since their adventures in the Court of Miracles, he had settled into himself, shedding his restless edges and solidifying into someone stronger than any of them. Athos sometimes wondered if the rest of their problems drowned out any of Porthos's, but then sometimes Athos would catch Porthos looking nervously at Aramis, his face shod in a troubled expression, and Athos would think that perhaps their problems were Porthos's problems, one and the same.

And there was a rift between Porthos and Aramis, a rift, Athos realized, that had somehow formed between these two who had been inseparable even before Athos himself came to the garrison. The words Aramis spoke to Porthos were stilted and repressed, and frequently he made excused to be alone—and good Porthos, he kept his distance and looked on wearing an expression Athos couldn't identify.

Aramis. Since the announcement of the Queen's pregnancy, Aramis had grown gradually more withdrawn. As the months went on and the Queen's confinement neared, he distanced himself from Porthos, his closest friend, and D'Artagnan, who looked up to him as an older brother. And Athos—the only one who knew his secret, Aramis hardly met Athos's gaze these days. Aramis's secret was a clear burden on his soul; he had always been the most religious of them, but now Athos caught Aramis praying desperately in the dark of night, silently sifting through his rosary during idle hours, and attending confession more often than Athos had ever known him to.

Once, Athos had confronted Aramis—as Aramis had in the past confronted Athos when he was sick with drink and self-hatred—when it was just the two of them in the shadow of twilight. Aramis was drunk, and Athos was so sober it hurt.

"What are you doing to yourself, Aramis? Punishing yourself for the past? What's done is done." He had said it and meant it, despite the sickness that woke him some nights worrying for Aramis and the Queen and the treason they had committed in the name of love. He knew Aramis loved fiercely, but the fierceness of his self-punishment seemed more than enough to account for his mistake.

Aramis had laughed bitterly in reply. "This from the man who nearly drank himself to death trying to forget his own sins. Who are you to preach, Athos?" It was Aramis's pain speaking, not himself.

"Someone who has done what you are doing now. Someone who knows that it will reward you nothing."

"Perhaps I don't want anything," Aramis whispered. "I don't deserve anything. The pain is enough."

"Of course it isn't!" Athos wished in that moment that he had a better talent with words, like Marguerite; she would know what to say, but he struggled with the words. "It won't bring her back to you."

Aramis's gaze was acerbic, his mouth twisted in disdain. "Don't you dare. I have never presumed to know your burdens. I have never judged you for the sins you have made. You think now have found some small, brief happiness that you can lecture me? You know nothing." There was an awful silence as Aramis breathed as if there was an entire mountain weighing down his chest.

"I have sinned, Athos," he whispered, eyes closed. He said it as if he were hollow, this man, Athos's friend, so possessed by confidence and self-assurance in the past and now brought so low. "Not just once. My soul is black with it. I have betrayed my country, my king, and my God. Love has been my sin." His voice was barely audible. "And I sin still."

The words rang in Athos's ears now as his eyes flickered quietly between Porthos, surreptitiously concerned, and Aramis, dismissively silent. And then there was D'Artagnan, who was all but oblivious.

"You all make such a fuss of it," D'Artagnan said now, "but we deserve some happiness, don't we? However we can get it. We all do." D'Artagnan—perhaps not quite so oblivious after all—braced Aramis's shoulder with his hand in a brotherly manner. Aramis stiffened, setting his cup down slowly.

"It's just that some of us get it easier than others," Athos said dryly.

"Speaking of which," Aramis interjected harshly. "Shouldn't you let Marguerite know you've returned?"

An awkward silence descended on their small table. Though it was five months now since Athos had began disappearing at night to the Maiden's Heart, the others had not spoken of Marguerite Defoe. Athos knew his friends understood that his silence on the subject was not out of secrecy or shame, but a desire for privacy—and perhaps not to tempt the Fates. He was not one to flout an affair, and he knew Marguerite would not want him to. But the subject of the Queen's reclusive spymistress had somehow become unintentionally taboo in their group. What exactly was there to talk about, anyway?

So he smiled. "I'm certain she already knows."

* * *

Indeed, she did. The news had come by one of her couriers, who brought it from a sentry at the city gates; the spectacle of four ragged Musketeers with six even more ragged criminals in tow was hard to forget. She knew that Athos would escort the prisoners to the Chatelet himself because he did not trust the Red Guard, under whose guarding the criminals had escaped in the first place. She knew that the Musketeers would then report to their captain, and then likely get some rest. She smiled. If in their last week apart Athos had slept as poorly as she, he would need it.

She knew the return of the Musketeers was all the girls could talk about, and she knew she was smiling like an idiot, but she smiled anyway and chopped vegetables for the supper stew.

Next to her, a young girl sat on a stool with a book balanced on her knees, reading haltingly aloud. "'…_pémpousin ándra—hína…thýsai boûn_—"

"'_Thýsēi_,' Annick. It's subjunctive, not optative." The girl sighed dramatically and slumped on her seat. Marguerite continued soothingly, "You are doing well. You'll be well versed in Greek in no time." She lifted a carrot to her nose and inhaled the sweet earthy scent, then began to chop it. Her wrist ached from the force it took to cut through the flesh; the knife was blunted.

Annick sighed. "I don't understand why I need to learn Greek. You've already taught me to read and write in French."

Marguerite smiled. "Why don't you keep reading?"

The girl sighed again and continued her halting read under her breath, and Marguerite continued with the stew, sprinkling salt into the pot. The kitchen in their motley house—which was actually four houses all open to each other—opened out onto the small courtyard in the center of the houses. Five years ago when Marguerite began forming the Queen's intelligence ring, she told Anne that these houses were perfectly situated near the palace but in an unsuspecting neighborhood, and Anne had arranged for the houses to be bought and supervised under a false patron. The location was perfect, but really Marguerite had chosen the house for the courtyard.

In the years since, they had pulled up several flagstones in the courtyard and churned the soil to plant a garden. Originally, it had been for Marguerite to grow the herbs that she used in her midwifery, and chamomile, yarrow, chasteberry, St. Johns-wort, and others still grew there. But the girls had expanded the garden to include primrose and lavender and other wildflowers, and now vegetables for their own table. Marguerite had planted an ash first, right in the center, and through the years it had flourished, its budding branches skimming the rooftop. It was her favorite place in the house, and today the sun was shining; its warmth permeated the chilly spring air.

She heard Solenne enter the courtyard behind her. "I've been reviewing the communiqués from La Havre; the girls deciphered them just now. Don't argue—but I think we need to alter the codebook."

Marguerite looked over her shoulder at her friend and said, "All right."

"Really?" Solenne's voice rose with surprise. "That codebook is your child—you've not let me touch it in three years." But Marguerite just shrugged. "Are you…smiling?"

Marguerite laughed at that. "You make it sound as if I never smile. Am I so serious?" She was, she knew; she should temper her heart and stop acting so lovesick. And she would, soon. The happiness was a drunk in her veins; she would let it go. Soon.

"Well. Not never," Solenne conceded. "Goodness, you're in a good mood. It wouldn't have anything to do with the return of a certain taciturn Musketeer, would it?" Solenne sounded utterly mischievous.

Marguerite rolled her eyes in good humor. "Do you know you look like a whale, waddling around everywhere?"

"I am enormous," Solenne agreed gravely, her hands curling around her swollen middle. "I'm a leviathan!"

Solenne's confinement was near; in fact, the babe could come any day, which was more of a concern for Marguerite, who would lose Solenne's help with the intelligence ring as well as her midwifery practice, which Marguerite had been teaching Solenne for nearly three years. Solenne insisted on remaining useful for as long as possible. Despite her size, she complained of stiffness in her joints when she rested for too long, and so she remained ambulatory.

Pregnancy suited Solenne, Marguerite thought. It rounded her edges and swept away any signs of past malnourishment. Her hair was thicker and more golden than ever, and her skin seemed to glow. Marguerite wished it were so for the Queen. Anne had been bedridden for weeks now, partially out of fear for the baby's health and partially because of her swollen ankles. Her body was sore from the weight of a healthy baby soon due. When Marguerite visited her chambers on one of her weekly visits to rub her feet with clove oil and ply her with raspberry tea, the Queen had begged Marguerite for relief.

"Can't you do anything to make this baby come now?" Anne had groaned.

"Not unless you want to birth your baby and not live to meet him."

"Or her."

"Be optimistic."

"Any day now you'll be back to your normal nymph-like self," Marguerite said now to Solenne, stirring the boiling soup. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm having some discomfort," Solenne admitted, "and not just from Annick's Greek."

Marguerite abandoned the soup and came to where Solenne leaned against the kitchen table. She palpated Solenne's large belly gently, pushing firmly against the taut skin, feeling for resistance with expert care. She didn't feel the baby move at her intrusive pushing, but there seemed to be no signs of alarm.

"If you teach me to be a midwife, would I still have to learn Greek?" Annick asked hopefully.

"All the best midwives know Greek, Annick," Solenne said matter-of-factly, and then winced.

Marguerite stopped pushing and began rubbing soothingly. "Nothing seems to be the matter. The baby is just turning—it's sideways right now, which explains your discomfort. I'd say you'll birth within the week."

"Thank heavens," said Solenne. "Not that I haven't enjoyed being twice as large as everyone else. Oh, that feels good."

Marguerite continued her rubbing. "And will you still not tell me who the father is, so he can share in your imminent joy?" she asked quietly.

Solenne smiled ruefully at Marguerite. "What's the point? What good would it do?"

"He could take responsibility and support you two, and have a family—"

"Why would I want that? I have you and twenty other women to keep me company and help me raise this child. This baby will have more godmothers than he can count!"

Marguerite took to massaging Solenne's shoulders in the way Anne liked. "Of course we will help you. But I still think you should tell him, even if you won't tell me his identity."

"Ah! Right there. Mhmm." Solenne's voice had taken on a dreamy, contended tone as she closed her eyes and gave herself to Marguerite's hands. "It wouldn't make a difference, Margot. He already knows."

Marguerite stopped her massaging. "He knows? And what did he say?"

Solenne sighed, not unlike one of Annick's dramatic sighs, and said, "He said nothing, because I didn't give him a chance. This baby wasn't made in love, Marguerite—and it's not what you think," she added hurriedly when she saw Marguerite turn pale. "It's just that he doesn't love me, and I don't love him. I comforted him because he could not have the woman he wanted, and this," she splayed her fingers over her taut belly, "is what resulted. I'm not angry. I'm actually happy."

"Will you at least tell me—"

"Go back to your soup," Solenne said airily, waving Marguerite away with obvious pleasure. Annick was still reading but under her breath and in a jumble.

"'_Anḕr thŷsai boûn_—'"

"_Thýson_!" they corrected in unison, and Annick pouted.

"Now you're just being difficult," said Solenne reproachfully to the girl. "You know when to use an infinitive and it's not there."

Annick sighed yet again, and Marguerite exchanged a look half exasperated, half amused with Solenne, who said, "I'm going to go get the codebook," and waddled out of the room.

Marguerite turned back to the stew, hoping it hadn't burned. She divided her attention between judging the amount of salt in the stew, and listening to Annick's grudging Greek conjugations, and worrying about Solenne, and Anne, and thinking about Athos; she was frightened of her happiness. It felt almost dangerous, as if she were dancing on the edge of a cliff. Surely months of overall peace was a sign that fate had something devastating in her new future. _Let it not be the babies_, she thought, and reminded herself that she didn't pray. But it couldn't hurt, so she prayed again. _Not the babies_.

She was so busy ruminating and stirring that at first she didn't notice that Annick had stopped reading. Marguerite turned to give a scolding and dropped the ladle into the pot.

Annick was sprawled on the ground, her book of Greek verbs fanned onto the stone like a broken bird. Her head was perilously close to the wall—had she fallen and been knocked unconscious?

No, not fallen. A man's hulking figure moved around Annick toward Marguerite, and she wondered how she hadn't smelled him first—stale sweat and cheap wine and jealousy. She had told Marius to watch for Lombard in the weeks following the incident at the Maiden's Heart; they had assumed that he'd drunken himself to death or found some other brothel to appease his appetites. But here he was, looming and filthy and lethal in a blunt, brutal way.

She had just enough time to find the knife she used to cut vegetables before he lunged.


End file.
